his scar ran deep.
it pierced through his skin, cracked through his bones, sliced through his heart, as the up-and-down motions of his chest continued on. the mountains rose lower and lower with every passing beat.
thump. thump. like the beating of the bass, dubbing slowly into lub. love. zero.
he lay asleep on the asphalt floor, bleeding from his chest to his back to the ground, iron-rust seeping through the cement, drip-drip-dripping, and – what was this blood?
no one had made the mention of blood, for blood was not what was empty.
empty, like the red lines at the bottom. empty, like half of the glass. empty, like those sullen eyes. empty, like those words
that said nothing
but meant something.
empty, like silence
and the complete opposite of bombast.
empty, like the contents of his pockets, or the house down the street.
[for you see, there is a house down the street
but there is no home.]
and his journey only lasted a few meters, maybe 1000, or 100, or 10, or
zero. empty. love.
his heart had bled, yet his not as intense as the crimson of the one who held his hand and grabbed the offending object, not as intense as the thin, careful slice of skin from head to toe.
they were this close:
twelve. fifteen. twenty-two. five.
12. 15. 22. 5.