hard not to

hard not to write.
her hand on his legs, barcadi bottle. soap and skin singing like a dying swan, you in my arms, my touching your soul, how it felt, how it felt, when we were.

dreams buried, in shatters and fragments. she is fucking good. damn.

he spit his venom into all directions, i asked the wrong question and suddenly i was no friend no more.
there are people who can't take a wrong step. who can't take a wrong word. who can't take a wrong question.
we are so frail and fragile against these towering walls.
we have to learn to be upset. outraged. outspoken.
it hurts. it hurts when your actions are counted like pennies and intentions don't matter at
all

some friends we just have to let go
like lovers

maybe i really just wanted
to get something out of it

angel

She fell way deeper than I did.
And she fell hard.
It's not like I had to be there to understand her and what does that mean, anyways. Fully comprehending her is beyond any of us.
She was the muse and the angel, the falling one.
When he looked her in the eyes, he knew but she didn't care. It had corrupted her mind, her soul already so far, that she couldn't feel any warmth permeating through. She was cold and cold she felt, dismissing his words like pennies and tokens.
Beggars, so her words fell like razorsharp swords, beggars will pick up the pieces, and left.
It was another one who picked her up, way later, in a shady room in the maze of the old brewery, her eyes rolled back into her skull and her tongues shivering in jibberish, pale, so pale she was and so skinny, retreating from her physical body like a tired army in defeat.
But, she had wanted to taste the utter senselessness of defeat in a battle that wasn't hers. She had wanted to go so far, so far down into the innermost chambers of hell's luciferic disguise, she had wanted to be saved maybe, and she was, somehow, and in a way.
When I met her again the scars had healed all the way through, she was still sticky like glue but she walked upright and tall, as tall as her little body allowed her to, anyways. Her savior was still with her, every now and then, she told me how she had to light herself for him like a tired old moist match, every time she met him.
Once the flame burns, she said, it's warm.
Warm, once it burns.
Often she was too tired and a little too cold and then he had to light her, once, twice, three times. Add some tinder, add some tender, then it would go.

She was the angel in the old abandoned armybuilding, the one curled up on the round window sill like a little cozy vulnerable cat, the one discussing issues of health and education with a fervor I had missed in so many people.
So natural, so gracious. And when she danced, she moved the air in waves that hit the beholder like a smooth fireglow and when her lips met yours it was like melting, so it was.

And when I look in the quiet of the nightriver, when I throw my eyes into the sullen skull of this starlit sky, then I think of her and how we know each other, hold each other in a comforting distance, know each other in our darkest facets and the brightest heat of love and light.

She fell way harder than me. Further and harder. She bares the marks on her limbs and deep scars in her soul. But we have in common the courage to go and see, the sickening curiosity and fascination to visit the other side, where we know we don't really belong. The knowledge that we are but wanderers.
Wanderers between worlds.

Angels falling
Falling wide