dancing after death

now take what i offer, straight up the nose, down the throat

it's a bearable bruise on your conscious

Rest, to him, includes sleeping. It includes the dullness of nothing to do other than stare at the ceiling until the exhaustion strikes, and suddenly its hours later when he wakes in a fit of surprise and shock, to feel the bed cold beside him, the quiet tapping of the wind outside as it brushes a branch along the siding of the home that they’d converted to the bar. It was lonely, exhausting, and at the end of the day far more than he wanted to deal with. Buts he asks him to humor her, and he roots to his spot further.

Steel eyes flicker up to her as his questions pelt her, his mind fogged and frustrated, mask placed along with thorns and edges, to get close is to bleed – an accurate description of what and how he feels right now. He clenches his jaw when she replies, turning his head from her, arms folding across his chest like a statue, a piece of stone, immoveable, impassible. “You should.” He replies gruffly, hoarsely. “After everything, everything that happened.” He shakes his head to her, turning back toward the bar to place his palms along it. “I told you before that to get close to me is to get hurt, so stop caring, stop hurting yourself, because you care about me.”

but don't it feel good? don't you feel calmer?

i am the way and the life in the best looking truth