growing wings | Completed

12. gold drips from my fingertips

     i don't think i had realized i had the cause of my self destruction held delicately between my anxious fingers,

     burning. burning at the end.

     one breath and my stress evaporates. it seems like everything goes away, and sometimes, so does reality.

      withering. withering away.

     she was sat at the old café across the street, her eyes clear like glass, and a dress made her seem otherworldly,

     as if no one on earth was good enough for her to stay here. the celestial look that graced upon her features was vibrant from afar,

     how does one prove to another to be so saintly and virtuous?

      her once radiant eyes skim across the street to land on mine, my throat is dry, and my mind feels hollow.

     it settles onto my hand, where i began to level the stare with her, raising the cause of my slow death to my lips.

      why does she seem so concerned? who is she to look so culpable? she is not the cause of this. these are my own wounds, please, let me be in control of something for once,

     even if it is my own afflictions.

     the bane of my existence comes in packets, and relieves the pain like the way she had once.

     now she looks at me with worry engulfed in her eyes, and paranoia in her steps as she approaches me.

     "ezra, why?"

      why?

      why would one hold something so small, so perilous in their hands?

      why?

      i think it's because i can't see the sunset the same way, how the waves crash against the rocks, nor the sky being clear and the sounds of thunder soothing my ears.

     now all i can think about is the solicitude that rings in my ears, how my body is painted with blues, how gold is dripping from my fingertips.

      i say nothing, and throw it away. looking back up to her, her eyes still holding the same disgusting, rancid pity.

     "ezra, if you ever want to talk about your problems, i'm here," compassion drips from her lips, and i feel it cling to my ears.

      i would love to tell her about the screams of enmity i hear at night, and how sometimes it's my own, 

      i would love to tell her about my decorated body, and how my blues are shades darker and slowly turning obsidian-like.

      however, this is not my story.

      this is not my scene.

      "you really think i need to talk?" 

      a ripple in calm water is enough to disturb the stream.

      "i should be asking you that," i try to keep my voice gentle, like a loving child hesitantly approaching an uneasy rabbit,

      i've seen the way your body quiver, and tears deluge your face, tainting your once clear skies,

      i've seen the way your smiles have turned hesitant, and your laugh just a little bit hollow.

      i would've loved to have told her that.

     "if i do, i'll be sure to," a tight-lipped smile was her answer, and a hand softly touching my shoulder before she left.

       eyes following her angelic descent, i felt something pool at the bottom of my stomach, 

       and i begin to question why the gold drips from my fingertips.

      - gold drips from my fingertips