He touched her skin. His hands were as cold as he was. His hands felt rough. Calloused. Worn from the paintings he left for her. He didn't mind. She had no choice. She watched the darkness in his eyes. Hard to believe angels fall. The more she pushed the more she was pushed back. Apathy never stopped this artist, it only made his works easier to finish. His words crawled inside making their ways more liable every passing moment. The truth was hard to run from, but so easy to pretend. Apathy was like a drug. It left her paralized and frozen. A corspe. He loved the taste of the rotten flesh. It inspired him to paint. She fell into his arms, like a rookie to a safety net. She cried out inside, but they were mere whispers of the wind. She breathed in the intoxicating calogne and let him be the artist. His calloused hands once were more than just tools at some point. They loved. But time was the fatal enemy.
 Made27 · Thu Feb 10, 2005 @ 10:59pm · 0 Comments |
