We are friable creatures, our photographs disintegrate in hairline movements, our smiles fractured on the floor.
We are parallel lines, leaving notes as we pass: your cup in the sink, my coat on the bed, our backs facing each other in the night.
We are the closing doors on awkward gazes, behind which silence teems. We are the eye of the storm before words are unleashed and twisted and cannot be unspoken again.
We are stuck in a loop, on the road, driving towards bad news. We are tunnels bright with failure, dark with disappointment.
We are black holes engulfing energy and light and all things nice. We are daggers and dead space, assholes and misers. We are blank paper, empty rooms, dust collecting, collecting malignancy. We are letters and sentiments, platitudes, post-coital apologies, happier times, always right, always wrong, slowly becoming irrelevant.
We are love dancing along the precipice, flying, falling, hand-in-hand. And we know not. We know not how to stop.