Drift, drift as soft tender arms encompass without warmth, closure obscured in whispers of suspense. Clouds above—illusory sustenance, bandages woven with blinding light. The lull in rhythm, vibration at a void's edge—a pulse beating nowhere calm.
And as sleep breaks into pieces like neglected china, reformed fragility emerges; reds face down. Listen to the silent embrace, laden not with comfort, but the weight of always-was.
Pillows harbor secrets whispered by nothing—clouds curdle with shadow play. Air, nothing more than determined infiltrators. Do we ever know the truth behind cotton masks?
Breathe. Light becomes an armor with cracks, veils of deceit thin. Have a seat, they'll never notice the truth beneath. Read dripping pages ending nowhere. Acknowledge the desolate truth bearers, veiling the ugliest identities.