Life in motion.

         The feeling of an eyelash fluttering against skin. The intake of breathe before it lands on warm skin, easily making it warmer. The sounds of a body trying to maneuver itself from the tangled mass it fused with. The sounds of a creaking bed that would never let you escape freely. A confused squeal, like a pig or an estranged lover. A sack of meat that thought it meant something to you. Disgusting. Deplorable. A daffodil, slowly dying.

         You pet her head, but it’s not worth the effort. She clutches your hand, you shake yourself loose without any care. There’s no more kindness in your actions, no quiet shuffling. You talk, your voice is low and small. It’s loud and powerful. It’s scary. You tell her she could only survive on the love of another, and you don’t have that. She’s dyadic, you’re destructive. She doesn’t understand.

         Her body finds yours, clinging even more desperately than last night. The hum of cars two stories below fills the space in between her denial. The birds outside are chirping with an incessant need. The room is still, save for her animated pleas. Your fingers slowly find your temples, not hers, as you rub an oncoming headache. You sigh, plead. "Just… go."

         She stares at you before silently rising to pick up her clothes, rushing to the bathroom. She slams the door behind her, and you lower yourself onto the now empty bed. The world is still alive. You look outside for something to cling onto, but all you see is blue sky and the grey street below. All the birds left.