19hrs

The door is closed. My fingers hold the vapour. The trails left on my veins. The fat air illustrates the hand holding it up to the light. I caught the breeze. The frailty thickens. The evaporated sun rests slowly over my head as I open my mouth and breathe in the textures of tomorrow. My hands are cold. My head rings of sounds like spinning plates. His white shirt, the subtle feathers around the shoulder absorb the sounds from the mode, the piano's black slowly creeping its way into the minors. Its the red carpet we are standing on. But the sound is black and the sky is white. My veins can hold the sound no longer as I slowly become a victim to the body.