It was the way she closed her eyes as she took in the first lungful of nicotine. A slow drop of her lids, like the vertical close of the living room blinds.
It was the liquid throb of her heartbeat, subdividing our melody.
It was shade in the winter; cooling the freezing, doing no good.
We were a space heater in the summer.
it was the way she wet her red, chapped lips before our collision, like two celestial bodies brightly, beautifully dying.
the way I could feel our electric currents
her hair tracing designs on my closed eyes, defending themselves
her hair in the reaching rays of the sun nearing the horizon
her back turned, black shoes against the grey concrete
the last sensation of my fingers losing grip on the soft skin of her wrist
her fingertips leaving mine
and dry eyes
and, "I can't be this."