She lives in anticipation of his breath.
His subtle smirks,
she lives at the end of his words.
The woe in her and the world in him.
When he opens his mouth to call for her, she begs to crawl inside and live on his tongue.
She can live with the bodies in the basement and
the blood on his hands.
She can live with the harmony in the hurts.
As long as she is his precious,
the blood stone he plucked out of the ugly forest,
as long as she is the exception to things.
Sometimes the rust settles at the bottom of the water and everything turns brown.
and she turns into a number.