Each binding catastrophe, enveloping us, like burning wood, like his hands,
Grooves filled with rock, with dirt, with my blood. The smell was dead.

And crescent, the imprints in my skin, like half moons. His nails dug into me like fire trying to die.

There was no meaning in the sky, it held no purpose, no barter to our senses. It was a pure blue. Untainted.

I felt so silently. He felt so eagerly; loud. I wondered if it was his mother or the dark that taught him to speak. Like sparks, reaching as arms into your body, and burning with electricity - his tone carried boulders, rumbling down your lungs to settle in the fear.

He scared me.

Yet.

I felt.

I felt.

The same as when i lay like unfinished art beneath him, or a ruined canvas; spilled paint, soaked edges. He looked at me like he did not know me. Or he did not know himself around me.

And when I said his name, it was a foreign word, an unknown language. I spoke in tongue. He spoke with his fist.

Sascha. Sascha.

I started to fall in love with the mix of black and blue, and how it shaded itself into purple galaxies, streaming down my arm like poured milk over fresh ink. These bruises were more than pain, they were his name, tattooed in cursive on my flesh.

Travesty knelt in the form of an opened grave. His eyes were closed. His skin was white.  I placed my open palm onto the cold casket surface and I did not feel him, not at all.