the pretty edit

that's it that's all there is

fragments of dreams lost to the void, fragments of people remembered and forgotten

don't stay too long in the shadows, they will feast on the flaws they see and even gnaw at the bones

caught in your web, every strand of what you said was perfectly woven, for deceit is not a strong enough word

the story that wraps itself around me, though untitled and unfinished, yearns to be told

the claws of a deeper yearning, one that lines my heart with grey until one day, maybe one day

leave me trembling in your ocean of rotting love until it deepens, ruthlessly, to shame

between touches of light and tender wings, their voices ring with a clarity only witnessed by the most pure

his cheeks, though stained with pink, were edged like knives, facilitating shadows of their own

winter resides in your palms, a sketch of inky black across your veins

quieten your mind, listen to the earth's heartbeat; maybe for a moment you'll be free

blazed desert stillness or an english afternoon bleached by the sun that graces the window

the breeze that whispers through the branches asks for forgiveness; close your eyes and let it move you

just a glimmer enough to spark a flame to keep us from falling

the red brick house reeks of dust and the kind of silence that breaks with a scream in the night

not even the promise of birdsong could melt your heart, burdened as it was with guilt made for two

silver streaks of moonlight through your hair, and your eyes soaked up what they could in the darkened sky