DropTheDaggerx

His heat trails up her side, the whole of him on her like winter buried in snow. Her eyes have long since fluttered closed, his silent lullaby a rainstorm of kisses on blushed cheeks. A ring hangs from her neck, miles of golden chain unevenly splayed across her chest. His hands, the ones she had memorized right down to the gnarled scar and short digits, grasp it with delicacy. He slips the ring onto her finger and, as he had hoped, she stirs. "What?" She is groggy, her hand immobile. "Will you marry me?" And her smile is inevitable.

A vibrant, red celestial body deteriorates in the hands of summer. Stained lips envelop the first blossom of warm weather, teeth sinking into collapsing hill tops. Seeds spray like ocean mist, scattering on burning skin. A tart first bite bleeds a sickeningly sweet after taste, Cascading over a curious tongue. A beating heart, a glowing star- this is the fruit of fresh air. Often held to the lips of the innocent- A strawberry is its sweetest before death.

               I awoke to the sound of a monitor, beeping idly beside me. Just below its sound was the soft whisper of a song. My vision came back slowly, a narrow tunnel opening before me. I allowed my head to loll, too weak to hold it up. A figure was beside me, head buried in his arms. His hair spilled across my sheets, unnatural black contrasting against a bright white. Gerard. "What is going on?" I croaked. His head jerked up, hair whipping against his face.  "You're awake!" His hazel eyes gleamed. Was this the same man from before? I was irritated. Gerard wasn't explaining anything, despite my confusion. He looked down at me in

              I feel heavy as his eyes avoid mine. There are no tears or remorse. I feel as though I missed years, missed scenes. I can see them, though, flickering through my mind. It isn't computing. The only thing registering is the foul taste coating my tongue. It's too much. There's too much to feel.  "I don't understand." "You knew this couldn't go on forever." But I thought it would.  "Why can't it?" My tears were spilling onto the floor, uncontrollable rain.  "We can't continue being selfish. Think about the band. Think about our wives." He was begging, but this time it wasn't for a kiss or a fuck. He was begging to leave, to

           Beatrice quietly slips into a seat at the kitchen table with a freshly made grilled cheese. Her eyes are gray, much like the fabric of her cotton dress. There is a small television set flickering before her. It is on mute. Beatrice does not need sound to understand what is going on. The picture struggles through static, occasionally wavering in and out of view. A fragile news reporter makes her way onto the screen, holding onto her microphone with desperation. She is visibly shaking, her usually perky expression melting with her foundation. Behind her is a large, uncontrollable fire. The wind is unbearably vicious, making even the

Eyes of crushed ice, much like the froth of chaotic waves. Skin like a worn stone path, as smooth as each embedded pebble's surface. Fingernails like cool blades, the relief of pain meeting my back in rows. Tangles dancing across my cheek- wind against petals. The potent scent of burning leaves: a hypnotic flame of attraction. The stirring of my heart, like a bird within a rusted cage. Tattooed skin embraces borrowed flesh and I hope to outlast the setting sun.