“I never took you as someone who visits graves.”

A woman stood by the wheel chair. She was just far enough to be noticed, but out of arm’s reach. Face hidden by chestnut hair, only a smile could be seen, glimmering softly like the light reflected upon water’s surface. She was facing that water, hair softly grazed by a breeze and otherwise undisturbed.

Her image was real. So real, one could swear they could touch. In fact, any onlookers who didn’t know her would assume she were living. This had been the place she was put to rest, and so had a stronger connection to the world, making it easier to communicate with anyone who bothered to come by.

@cavusvitae​ who fucking sent like five million things to my inbox gracias mi amor:

 ‘ the blackhole got her. and somehow, i’ve just been scared, you know? i’ve just been scared that it’d take you too. ’

☆ Longevity. The concept of stability slipping beneath gloved fingers. She gave long sigh, let hands bury themselves deep within the suds in her sink. The bar was quiet on Sundays, for there was little to be done on a day of rest. Closed. Flickering lights shut off. And all that was there were two people still so distanced by an event that shut them off completely from their own feelings. 

The words. Suffocated in her throat. Tremble to her lip, gaze narrowed as water turned cold to her touch. 

So much left unspoken. And who’s fault but her own? Carmine orbs outlined by dark, beautiful lashes. Only to go wide and turn to him sharply. 

“How can you say that? When you’ve felt it too.” Fingers emerged and ran over towel, clinging to the fabric in frustration.

“In the rain. In the wind. In quiet days like this. 

How can you say she’s in a blackhole? When all I see is her around us?

Isn’t that what the Lifestream is, Cloud? People we knew, once. In the dirt and the grass. Making something new again.