if grief is love with nowhere to go, then where does it gather? in the corners of your eyes, the back of your throat, that hollow in your chest. waiting for the slightest touch to spill.
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤ`` These clothes do not
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤbelong to you. They do
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤnot belong to mine either.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThey're falsely made.
So allow him to demonstrate /exactly/ what he meant.
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Just like how he's sure he's one second late to reach over and comfort them, or how he's always making a slightly harsher expression.
His eyes fall onto their hands.
He moves, walking over and lifting up the bow on their neck.
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His eyes catch on the others nails, as they shift and squirm under him, he takes a hand and brings it to his lips.
He bites down on the nail, listening to their whimper of pain. A sound he's never heard, not in this context.
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His eyes trace over their movements, as if he meant to reenact it later, following and counting the times his master's stomach rose and fell.
..Just one short of how much his own artist would.
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His eyes trace over their movements, as if he meant to reenact it later, following and counting the times his master's stomach rose and fell.
..Just one short of how much his own artist would.
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Their palms hurt too, though that's a much more bearable and even accustomed pain by now.
❝ You probably said something like that before . ❞
They whisper, trying to save their own skin— — lest his servant berates him again over the mixing of identities and worlds.
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