When your fingers are intertwined with another’s and you suddenly see different parts of yourself with laser clarity. You are no longer pure light. Flesh to flesh, you are a forest fire, wiping out acres of land, desperate to be rid of your thirst for thousand-year-old sequoias. Your flames grow taller than folklore giants and for one tiny fraction of a second, the embers appear to dissolve into the empyrean sun.
That unsettled heart which was once so green, muddled with jealousy and distrust, now thrashes against your chest to spring out of it’s skeletal box. And when you look at the blue veins on the back of your hands creeping up to your fingers -his fingers- that seem to carry on all the way to his wrists, you understand that this is the closest you’ll ever get to the gospel truth.
Under a sheet of indigo sky you lay, surrounded by splitting asteroids and indiscernible vortices; there is no safe way out of this galaxy. In the dark, his voice makes every word sound like rich purple prose; there is no safe way around that either. But you hold on to those glass fingers nonetheless and tie up the loose ends of his sentences like you would on any other day. This time, you’re ready to be split into pieces.
[Via Emilia’s Cerebral Bulimia]