death is a fickle mistress.
all the tenderness dissolves. all intimacy inevitably decays.
we flood the void with guilt and panic. yet, empty is how it remains.
the maps in our skin tend to get us lost. the ones in our heads are more accurate.
we're so small. it's just that everything is smaller still. so our perspective is distorted.
the colors tangle and the words go missing. blood is always a stranger.
the angles sharpen. time hesitates.
we're always alone when it hurts. nothing can penetrate that wall.
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