Walking elegance, her heart padlocked, thoughts chained.
Unearth the putrid and quiet the noise. Lying in inner turmoil, unable to move or scream, he held her closer.
A soul in need of sutures. No two edits alike, the words sharpen a truer image, undressed form, curtained eyes.
Grief over mishandling his power, apologizing, finding her retaliation. If only. Impossible.
In times of calm, her language portrays the mundane. As if tracking the sun was the remedy.