tarsh

*consider yourself   nothing, then stop considering*

She slowly curved our insides to a mass of empty breaths, and when finally we would exhale and exhale, fight and desperately seek meaning in our wispy, airy contractions, nothing would come of them. A different way of saying: she had a death in me. Her hair, of red pine and willow leaves in autumn would sit lightly on her pale skin – and oh, small shivers would stand still against my spine –   hurry. Her knees were colourless; lines threw their bones into an awkward shape of round, what would normally fit wholly unusual, between her slender branches of legs and arms. Eyes, what could anything be said of them save for their lack of meaning?...