cerulean

cold rays of sun don't hit your face as you run towards the ticking
 
(--ticking, tick tick tick tick that maddening sound--)
 
and then you embrace her, her beautiful pale skin and long locks of flaxen wheat hair and eyes too blue
 
(--tickticktick, she whispers and she's too perfect--)
 
you always compared her eyes to cornflowers, didn't you? or maybe the ocean's sweet smell, of brine and beach and dead fish and then again, that's too ironic because one drop of salt water and she will rust
 
(--we're very good at running out of time, you see--)
 
and her skin, her porcelain frost paper whitewhitewhite skin and it is fragile, you think as you press calloused fingers to it, and you could bruise it so be so gentle, so kind to the frail person she isn't
 
(--salt water burns your eyes and you're not crying, you don't think--)
 
she's not that fragile. she's made of metal, remember? tiny brass gears and golden wires and large copper bolts and silver welding marks and it all moves together so perfectly, doesn't it? she's so lovely and so yours, isn't she?
 
(--tea would stain her skin, its linen tablecloth folds and she looks like a tablecloth, even with her own vase of flowers--)
 
and you clutch her long, cold hands in yours, and you hold her boldly, now, and you are in love but (...)

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malignancy

take in all my pain, my agony, but take in my life, my joy, my love. when i die, i want you to take it all. promise me, just make me a promise, that when i can't talk and my skin hurts and my lips are swollen and my hair is gone, that you'll take me away.