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boiling point.

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My hand lay stationary as I trace the lines on my palm, jagged and random. If theyre telling a story, I'm yet to comprehend. The friction between my skin and the tightly wound surface of sanity swell beyond what should be considered over bound limits. My lips chap with forced silence, my tongue seems too heavy to form speech, though my mind is twisting into screaming lines that drown me violently with oblivious regret. Maybe if I were physically stronger my grip could have held you by my side, I glance again at my still hand wondering how it felt when the lines were obstructed by your own, pressed together with promises that are now more vague than the touch of your skin. My eyes close to hold in the memories contain what small portion of you I have left. They only come in whispers, flickers of light.
it takes two to hang on, when its all letting go.

Like photographic light your eyes would sparkle, tied deep in gaze with my own, mental subjection and divided perception. You were close enough to taste my imagination and me your games. Double wrapped in your feigned attempts of assurance.

It takes two to hang on, when its all letting go.





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