he held her hand.

he held her hand like he always did, the feel of her small fingers,

it was the cycle.

he would reach, she would respond, and it was like that since forever.

and now,

now when the stars were stripped from the sky,

stripped or painted over, he doesn't know,

he would miss that feel.

the pale pink nails linking gently with his own calloused hands,

how they were so cold,

and now he thinks,

would they have been so cold, if he wasn't as warm?

her hand held on tighter.


what was she afraid of that day? does he even fucking remember?

and with a last caressed kiss, her fingers slipped out of his,

he wasn't even paying attention, that bastard.

and she had ran.

and then he finally realized he was standing there alone.

and the cold lingered on his skin before,

the heat from his blood washed it away.

breathing is for amateurs.

Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien

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