she takes a pull of her Parliament, face painted in in fleeting ochre; an ancient star dying far from me.
"i was alive once and i swore i glimpsed the storm in the laughter"
we write each other's names on our palms and lovingly watch the ink fade as we drink from them.
that was the plan. plans end the same as the rest of it; vestigial and resentful in their silence.
you said your grin was that of a misfit. i said your grin lent dimensions the intent to rip open. i meant it, but i said it just to see it.
"...reasons. things can have many..."
stealing smoke from a Parliament, that old foolish ochre skirmishes with night, i remember that i'll remember the hospice stint intimacy fondly when i splinter infinitely through dimensional rifts in that moment you howled at the moon with the earth dangling from your neck.
"the wild hunt was a horrible film, but it was our horrible film"
you didn't even notice me dissolving into the monolith and i admire the honesty of that.
we can speculate about what the next life's masks conceal when we get there.