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fragments

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There are tiny fragments, crumbling away in the drawn moments.

The apartment is filled with them.

With cracks.

His absence slits through the present, leaving engrailed burn marks in his memory.

 

Spicy, smoky, heavy scents, wreathing low, fading into the air. Oswald used to trail them as he walked by, a king in his robe. The haze in the bathroom, that sticked in his throat whenever Ed took a shower after him. His cologne. He always used too much. Ed could bite into the air and he felt it flowing down on his tongue, bitter like aspirin. The bottle is still there, hidden behind the mirror.

The sour smell of red wine.

 

The comfortable, stridulous snuffles. Nightmares cracked up on his lips. A small whimpering, almost silent, then whist panting. Their song. Their voices lashed like whips, twining together, tightening, swirling to the ground. When he laughed, when he genuinely laughed, the sound bubbled up from his stomach. It felt husky and broken. He used to talk to him, of course, his faint, metallic voice could turn into dangerous hisses at any time. The way he spit the words into his face. The way he purred sweet nothings.

The floor cracks under his uneven steps.

 

His sharp vertebras almost bursted through his skin when he turned his back to dress up. Moonlight bend on his bones, wrapping him in silver flames. The light couldn’t touch his hair. His ruffled, coaly, matt hair devoured the beams of rays. If he ever dared to sink his fingers through the locks, maybe they would’ve embraced them too. He could’ve hidden inside, nuzzling against him, tearing him apart. The stormy eyes always made him unsettled. He lost himself in them. He was a shadowy figure in the corner of his eye, a blurred phantom. He didn’t fade when he looked at him. His vision sharpened, clinging to this reality.

Now he can blink him away.

 

His weight, light as a feather. The pulsing warmth of bare shoulders, radiating towards him. His bony arm, thrown across his waist as if by accident. His elbow squeezed between his ribs, his hot forehead on his scapulas. He always drew himself apart by sunrise like it never happened. Their spaces rumbled into each other’s, sparking, electrical. The loose energy felt breathless, irrestrainable. It slapped Ed every time he drew himself near, unaware or cunning.

They circle around each other in the kitchen, trembling legs and panic deep in their eyes.

 

His taste tore the deepest scar. He didn’t left any memories behind. Yearning boils in his veins, spinning ghosts from other relics. His tongue is the ash, scraped, cold, and wet. Sweat is salty and sticky on his skin, his cologne still on. Ed would smear it on his own teeth and lips. His lips are fragile like his frightened breaths, his mouth is hot, lissom like the drunken words pouring from them. Ed tears him apart with nails and teeth, pushing inside of him, hurting him. He tenses under Ed, screaming and growling and moaning and panting. They make love like they’re about to bite and gnaw every piece of flesh out of each other. Ed skins him alive to bury his fingers into his chest, caressing his ribs, clawing his heart, swallowing his whimpers.

He says:

“You’re mine.”

 

There are tiny fragments, crumbling away in the drawn moments.

The apartment is filled with them.

With cracks.

His absence slits through the present, leaving engrailed burn marks in his memory.

 

With cracks.
The apartment is filled with them.

The present slits through his absence.
His memory leaves engrailed burn marks in his memory.

Drawn moments crumble away.

 

There are tiny, tiny fragments.