The white edges

The white edges of your grey face are still. Your eyeless and hollow expression consumes the emptiness beneath the apartments and between the pale purgatory of the days drapes. Your face fills the vague vastness, spread into the steam with all of the reflective visions of a cloud fixing the empty and dim courtyard in the center of space, a square and still harbour and you wait only for the day to kiss it alone. You gaze into her secure plainness. She does not return the gaze. The city is asleep, she is gone, the courtyard is dark, the streetlamps, the timed floods, the nightlights of the damned have cried pax after an anguished night. The corners of your mouth glimmer as bubbles of saliva burst.

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