We sat together on her rock under a calming grey sky, one which guaranteed we wouldn’t have to suffer the joyful expectations of sunlight; and she put her head on my shoulder with a sigh heavy enough to prove we were shrouded in fog. The sky had come to cover us, to place it’s infinite fingers on us in comfort: the most benevolent deity we had any longer.
The world has kept spinning without you in it, and I fucking hate it. I want it to stop, I want it to mourn you with me, but it’s abandoned me. It doesn’t seem possible that it’s been five months since you were here, because I didn’t know that I could hold my breath that long. I’m more scared than ever of what will happen when I exhale.
I did some measurements, slicing, folding, and gluing to solve what I saw as a downside to the wonderfully-shaped Holbein Artists’ Oil Pastels.
She doesn’t have anything to say, but her weapon speaks for itself.
