Rukiakura483

she wakes up at seven. he wakes up at seven thirty. she brushes her teeth while brushing her hair before using the toilet. he has his cheese toast and coffee without a shirt on. she puts on mascara and shades, says good morning to her neighbors. he messes his hair in the mirror, takes an apple from the street vendor. she takes the bus to building 46 Rainbow street, first circle. he rides a bike to the nearest chalk store. she drinks her coffee black thrice a day, and sugary in the afternoon. he has his tea light, two sugar cubes, from any mini-store he happens to pass by. she takes an hour break at 13:30, stretches in the cafe, cinn

A crisp of crystalline light adorned her cigarette. "I get it, I do. You want to have your way with me." She smoked the words out in scorn. A tarnished nail scratched at the table. "You don't get it, then."  

has all the faces become you or have you become in all the faces?

She was a moving work of art. Her mendacious pupils can lilt through a soul as easily as gossamer would an insect. Fetching; her touches, fugacious, evocative, and as evanescent as fairy dust. But he loved her. Oh, he loved her with fervor, his love was blasting and aggravating; like a flashy spot of paint on her soft canvas. And she was insouciant. Her mother presented her deceit at the age of three. She had glanced at it for hours until it broke; deceit broke and so has every man's heart she touched. Mellifluous; her smile, taunting, innocent-flickered with opulent rouge. Oh, but her loved her...

He's gone. He's gone. The breath of his lungs can no longer fragrant this world's air. The firm strides of his feet will no longer implant hope across dry earth. The grace of his fingers can no longer portray legends on sand-paper canvas. And his smile you'll wear. He no longer can envelop a thousand words within an embrace and wrap it around your wings and soar. He will not trace the golden patterns on your flowing bride-ness, or bless your forehead with a sacred, wistful murmur, or have the last dance, or ask for your shelter from another, or shed a tear on your departure, or hold a hand to your mother. "He's gone, child. Don't h

"alright, enough. come banging on my door now. it's gone too far!" 'from underwater' "gone. gone. i am gone. no more nausea.." "for the life of me, i don't know why you've been gone for so long." 'whisper next to my ear' "can't you feel it? i was never gone. time is a metaphor" i just cut my finger. blood dotted the tissue and it smelt like you were always asleep. breathe life in me...

"see that blonde boy with the red hat?" "the one on the bike?" "yeah" "what about him?" "he's a complete stranger, isn't he?" "well, yeah, to us." "exactly. but to someone else, he's a son, a lover to another, and probably the boy who smiled at your friend in the train station. you get what i'm saying?" he smiled. I smiled. you never were a stranger to me.

when you brought me a salt cube from the sea, you said it reminded you of me- tiny and pure and- God bless you I should've told you i love you i do.

all that i ever was is written in the back of your hand. you just can't read it..