your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
She doesn’t flinch when he tucks the curl behind her ear, doesn’t shy away when his fingers graze her cheek like they have every right to still know her. But gods, she feels it; that soft, familiar scrape of skin against skin, the shape of a memory brushing right up against the fresh bruise of her present. Because he’s doing that thing again, isn’t he? That thing where he says too little and means too much, or at least she thinks he does. Where he drops his words like coins into a wishing well and expects her to divine the shape of the wish from the ripples they leave behind.
The light of him refracts off every sharp edge she’s spent weeks sanding down—throws all the glitter into the air so she can see it again, hanging between them like grief in drag. It gets everywhere—in the cockles of her heart, in the corners of her eyes, in the way she wants so badly to touch his mouth just to see if he still tastes like sea salt and something sweet he’ll never admit to. Instead, the landscape of her thoughts flares in full.
"That so?" she says, brushing invisible dust off her jeans as she sidesteps the cart and turns to face him fully. Her smile is small and a touch meaner than she intends. "Can't relate."
The light of him refracts off every sharp edge she’s spent weeks sanding down—throws all the glitter into the air so she can see it again, hanging between them like grief in drag. It gets everywhere—in the cockles of her heart, in the corners of her eyes, in the way she wants so badly to touch his mouth just to see if he still tastes like sea salt and something sweet he’ll never admit to. Instead, the landscape of her thoughts flares in full.
"That so?" she says, brushing invisible dust off her jeans as she sidesteps the cart and turns to face him fully. Her smile is small and a touch meaner than she intends. "Can't relate."
