don’t cry, okay? suguru nudges his fingertips at your dimples and kisses them when you sleep, okay? his hands ache to brush away the stray strands of hair away from your cheek and yet he doesn’t, because he thinks he’s unworthy of tarnishing your skin, okay? instead, he presses your cold hands against his lips and falls asleep like a coward who’s too frightened to look at the altar in the eye, okay? he thinks of prying his chest apart and trapping the remnants of you when time does its thing, okay? so that when they bury his hollow body and flowers sprout onto his ribs, they smell like you, okay?














