Fault lines run through your bones, a symptom of the drought that has left your heart pumping so weakly that I cannot feel it when my head rests against your chest.
It is so still.
I am afraid that even the touch of my hair falling onto your skin, soft and light like snow in December, will leave your rib cage a pile of dust.
You say to trust you; you have always survived, even when they drained the light from your fingertips and pulled out your soul to stretch tight over your lips, and really, how is this any different?
And I want to. I really want to, I swear. But I see the fractures widen as your legs shake with the weight of your heart, which has almost quieted completely, quicksilver veins glowing dimly in the light of the moon. I’m not sure I can trust you tonight, but I’m not sure I possess the strength to distrust you either. Your hands hold my wrists so gently, but I can feel them shatter when your lips part.
The heat seeping from your palms reminds me that you loved me once, and maybe you still do, but as your eyes close, I watch your collarbones crumble. The mound of dust glimmers like ground diamonds in ash. It dissolves into the breeze, and you smile with your lips drawn together.
You're up cairistiona :)