Cold Legs, Warm Hands

There's always a whisper in the room. Coughing from between the inside and the outside walls. A scent of reason still on the claws of the damsel who makes herself useful pretending to need what she's always had.

In the thoughts that expire while we busy ourselves groping at what we'll never hold, there is touch. The treason of surrender.

Strength making us vulnerable. Weakeness making us strong.

Close enough to the song. Drowning in moon. The girl in the doorway looks. For steps. Up and down both go in the same direction. The world isn't unkind. It just doesn't know. Who I am.

The ultimate truth being we are always together.

And forever alone.

The only thimg that is certain are the walls.