Maybe he’s dead. That explains the inaction, the indecision; the inability to agree but instead lay in cold silence and stare long into the dark as tears collect in a pool around his rigor. Beautifully corrupt, like rot creeping into mid-summer blooms, he’s unkind wind promising storms for thirsty hearts and instead bringing razor sands frenetically whipped into stabbing chaos by breathing – so shallow – grass springing around his rock-weighted arms like their hopes, but never growing in him, never creasing his alleged will. That monolithic stillness a vaccuum of courage, the black of color death draws long sighs, quaking thighs, worried eyes and whispered lies. Anything falls from their lips to stir him, ink dripping onto the squalid parchment of his skin under their wet caress, his epidermis now torn pages of a history better forgotten but poured over and over, like gospel, the devout clinging to hopes that the airless caverns of his lungs will expand again, bending ribs outward in great welcoming heaves that flood him with oxygen and bring the moon back to his eyes. Yet still there’s rust, the caustic quiet of his indelicate cowardice ripping apart the vast mechanisms of love, spilling springs and hopes, cogs and dreams like some fragmented clock that tried to keep time to his nature then shattered under the entropy of his desires, whatever those were. He never knew, the seconds, minutes and hours dutifully dropping from today to yesterday as chipped micah gleaming against soul light in it’s descent from top to bottom – hourglass spill – and isn’t that precious? Isn’t that decadence and wonder? His reluctance is a hungry pull of their attention and they cry, assaulted by the gravity of his expiration, their hands cupped and hoping to hold his adoration as he slips through their fingers, silent and unforgiving.
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