Morning Walks And Pills.

Concrete is as hard as the pressure you put on it, and as cold and how bare your feet are. Socks, stripped and ripped, symbolic and beautiful. We'd rest our spines on walls, timing our breathing so perfectly, the heat of your soles seeping into mine, your skin a blanket- warm, porous and as wet and pillows at sunrise.

The rush of cold in the morning, the crashing open of eyes, feet resting on cold ground, blankets running off my skin. Your never stay the night. You'll never fall asleep. You don't trust me with eyes closed.

Crystals, sharp and vibrant at the edge of your eyelashes. Dangerous. Hovering. You look through prisms, scatter me to the ends of your cookie crumble world. You are my white light, my pavement, my source.

I followed you to the tops of concrete wall and looked into your lying eyes. Empty, golden brown, the surface of your hollow interior glowing.

The trees are lined with that sparkle that only accompanies frozen snowflakes. Just like the ones you keep in your freezer, your pathetic attempt to preserve something beautiful. There is a shimmer in the air, the glitter that falls from the top of the endless sky. Crystalline, sweet, hard candied drops. You told me it was the wind that made your eyes water. You told me that the early morning breeze is the deadliest of all.

But it wasn't the wind that killed you; you never paid attention to doctor's orders.