he remembers the echoes,
within the darkness of
the cluttered flat –
the sound of newspaper against walls,
and bare palms against stained tiles.
and the muffled melodies
formed by the cerulean
bubbles leaving one’s dry lips –
flakes of dry skin falling off
her calloused fingers as he
held her hand –
and the sound of an
injection, a transparent liquid
thrust into her veins –
leaving her to question
the price of happiness against
the facades of one’s financial state-
for thin sheets of paper reeking of
sweat and wine never
sufficed to anchor her thoughts.
they were never sufficiently strong
to cause her to gravitate towards
sanity, and stability in the darkest
AN: its been awhile. for the same one.