He doesn’t realize the dedication in her watchful eyes, nor does he see that she is not quite as absent from him as he feels. Everything is black in white in his world, nothing greys, nothing makes sense anymore. Real, not real, past, present what was and would be seem like elaborate fantasies. It is so very hard to focus on much more than the shadows that linger far too often in his mind, they seem to wash away his very life force and his thoughts grow darker and dimmer with each passing moon. They are the very shadows that blind him now, seem to steal his senses because he does not hear her approach- not until she is heaving in front of him. The heart in her chest hammers a tune of worry and yet he is so very still in response.
Droplets of rain stream in beads down her bruised coat, for seconds some glitter like diamonds before they fall like tears to the ground. She is beauty incarnate and his chest catches one shallow breath when his glassy green eyes find her. The storm bellows at the unnatural way in which he interacts with her but they can not mend his pieces, they are too many now, most poisoned beyond recognition. They would not lock in the precise ways which were needed, gaps would disrupt the harmony of the acrylic masterpiece and yet not even that had kept him from trying.
His face feels so very light held up by her twilight colored nose, lifting away from the rough bark like a handful of soft snow. Perhaps she is just unordinarily strong, he feels so weak these days, has he always been? There was a time when he would have known that he was never such a broken creature but that time seems to have slipped away, finding the end of a river and tumbling down the waterfall from which it would not return. The superficial wounds to his scarred face are irrelevant to the damage he suffers from within but not even he is sure of its extent- sometimes it is hard to come to terms with the inevitable. “I just want to remember,” he breathes and while his voice still holds the same deep baritone it is hollow where once the words would have been rich, smooth like a shot of whiskey.
The words are not only empty they are angry, they are searching, his lips grasp at straws the same as his mind and his brow curves while his lips grimace. “It doesn’t matter what I do, nothing works!”
It is not at her that he yells, he berates himself, sickened at his lack of progress. She curls towards his chest and he is butter, melting across her indigo skin and tucking his bony nose into the wet raven tresses that cover her neck. This lasts for moments as she brushes his skin, moving forward against him and tracing the outlines of his body where once there had been thick muscle. “I have been eating,” the words are whispers now, pain radiated from speaking them because that made it truth, that made it real.
Im sorry this isnt terribly poetic