thanks for reading, folks. i feel like a new poetry book so... heres a goodbye poem i guess?? idk. this is DTW 82:
fate is cross legged in striped leggings on the floor of his bedroom, her hands delicate and birdlike, stretched out, index finger painted emerald tapping at what appears to be thin air. her hands twist in a complicated pattern, interlocking and detangling, and he's choking dying even as her hands flutter and she blows him a kiss.
