blushes
tips, brushes and spills and the willingness of physics
dip the quill
blending a full face of colours trippy
tipping my crown, my head,
my thinker becomes      creation winning
inks
i wink   faithfully lacy    into the universe    pirouettes and eddies
tinkering
i divide myself    couple and quad and oct..
flood my breeding into the cosmos
spoon-feeding      peddling out into the mutter
the great relax of the creative meddle

I watch them watch each other.

They play a game of touch-and-go, and all the while the clock is counting down.

One of these days, I want to walk with them, and then take their hands and place them in each other's.

I want to tell her:

"Tell me you don't feel this. Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't believe in this. Tell me this isn't still the realest thing you'll ever know. Tell me you don't wake up every day hurting for this. Tell me this simplest touch doesn't make you feel whole again. Tell me the thought of letting go again doesn't scare you to death.

Because you know what?

He feels this. He wants this. And oh god does he believe in it, despite how much hell it's dragging him through. It's still the realest thing he's ever known. He wakes up every day hurting and hoping for this. I can tell you for **** sure this tiniest bit of contact makes him feel whole again, and if you let go and walk away again, it will **** him.

So, if you can tell me all that, if you can let go and not break your own heart as well as his, then do it. But do it knowing all that you're giving up this time. Do it knowing that, if this doesn't **** both of you, you'll have an emptiness inside you for the rest of your life."