She lays her life in my lap of lies. My glassy eyes stare at a group of scavengers that I can see out the window. They bicker and fear for their lives an entire world away.
The hours pass slowly in this heart-shaped box; this time not as a blessing, but as a prison. The only clock in the room melts against the wall like a Dali image. Symbolic of the irrelevance of the march of the minute hand. Hand-over-hand, the way I run my fingers through the hair of my petrified paramour.
10:59 p.m. - 2015-06-22
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