can't talk about it nowi sit on the end of her bed and watch her braid her hair.she's beautiful in the dim light from the lamp on the floor.the way her dark tangelled hair falls around her shoulders makes my heart ache. if only i could run my fingers through it and show her how amazing she looks.she has pale skin and red cheeks, wide eyes that are sometimes green and sometimes brown, and dark eyelashes that she wishes were longer.she talks to me about love sometimes. tells me how she's too broken to care, too scared to want to. i tell her that love could heal her cuts and bruises if only she'd let it. but she won't.if i could tell her how gently i'd handle her heart and for how long i'd hold onto her essence maybe she'd understand what love is about. but she's never really been in love has she? not like this.we sit on her bedroom floor and drink whiskey from the bottle, her wasting away and me yearning for her to see what i do.but soon enough we'll move apart and she'll cry for a week over having lost
the light.'why are we alive?''its just a coincidence. the whole human race could end tomorrow and nothing in the universe would even notice''yes they wouldthe ducks that lonely old men on park benches feed would notice''i guess they would''you don't get anything'