beauty

to be content with another soul

the two ghosts

i decided to spend an unproductive night with K. i think about the amount of social progress we'll theoretically make as i pull in beside her. she sits in the open trunk of her car, feet slightly hovering over the black resin asphalt with flat-bottomed shoes that are so thin that i question their usefulness against skin abrasion. she clumsily scoots over to make enough room for us to share space, and consequently, time.

"if you want out, just give me a signal," i say as i mainly focus my attention towards the chilly air while keeping K only in my periphery.

"i don't," in the same manner as i, only with her head tilted slightly downwards.

i can see her idle hands crossing over her exposed knees. i admire what she wears but cannot begin to describe the complexities of what covers her skin. she wears pieces of clothing that i can't even identify, let alone create a proper visualization for through words. i attempt to unsuccessfully trace her articles, from their outward destination to undisclosed origins.

she's absolutely beautiful in a conservative, noncommittal way.

"and if i want out?" a blatant bluff masked in incongruities.

"you'll never want out," she says as she subtly turns and tilts her head in my direction while letting out a miniscule grin laced with cunning and confidence.

unannounced, we both turn inwards and give each other an asymmetrical, warm hug. she smells like an amalgamation of cinnamon and cigarettes. her bones are a vulgar reminder of what lies beneath her skin.

"are we going to hell?"

"hell doesn't only exist in the afterlife."

c'mere

hands worn dull, from an outlandish mutual encounter

violent, intrapersonal chemistry

souls worn thin, pressed against cold glass

platonic, strictly métier, operatic pagentry

passion project

there is no longer hurt where love had been

no sorrow, pliability and fragile sins.

random risk

the air

in between

provides resistance

a bitter taste

flowing forth

with subtle hints.