Multicolored, it was.

The image distorted, as if my subconscious had secretly wiped the screen with sweaty fingers. Yet the sunlight managed to seep through. Those golden strands playing gingerly on your face. The face I'd managed to study from every angle with your subtle permission. You always kept the attention of the room, aware that I could recite each story by heart. The material had grown tattered and overused, but my amusement never faltered. I, alone, clung to those passages. They were the mere seconds I could catch a glimpse of your 'educated' gaze, the unnoticeably sensitive outline of your lips, the visible five am shadow, the guarded kindness in your smile. The hues in your eyes clutching my breath, the curve of your jaw sending static up my spine. Ridiculous, how just a glance could make me cry out in welcomed exasperation.

Swing into the backseat.




I unnoticeably loll myself slightly to prop upon your broad shoulder. I smirk at my triumph. You inhale gently and I shake. Dumb, I am. "This is ridiculous; we should just be able to be ourselves somewhere." The masked driver slurs. "Be ourselves." You repeat, and distinctly curl your fingers around mine. Exhale. Hands slightly dry from the cold.


Seven knocks. Seven slumbers interrupted.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I've collapsed.

Moist from the Jacuzzi in the snow.
Alone, on the couch.

--It was nothing but a feverish unconsciousness.
Wet, shaking, tears burning chasms on my visage.
And all I did was hold his hand.