Dirty window

There is blood on the window between the two of them.

Their small and secret window where they used to stare each other in the eyes and always take care to keep it clean, shiny and transparent, is stained with fresh poppy coloured blood. The hideous thing is dripping lazy all around. And they stare at the stain with no expression on their faces.

The words cut through her unprepared flesh like the angry teeth of an savage animal. She was watching her reflection on the trains that kept coming and going and she was wondering when did he ever find the time and skills to sharpen them so good and train them so well, like he had wanted to make sure the damage was guaranteed. 

At first she put some pressure on the wounds and took some distance, like a beaten dog gone away to care for herself. But then she called him back for more. She was hoping for a bandaid, but she got some more teeth. Sharper. Or maybe just as sharp, except this time the words bit her on the fresh wound. And the pain went through her bones, as the blood was splashing the spotless window.

When it was all done they tried to share the old looks through the window. But their faces seemed diformed. She tried to fake a smile hoping to bring the sun to help get some clarity, she even shed a tear or more to wash the stain away. But it was still blurry. And bloddy. And strange. And scary. 

Source

Now they stay close to the window, their foreheads separated by the glass alone, breathing quietly and waiting for a summer rain to wash away the mess.

And if there will be a dry summer, question remains who will wash away the remainings of the beast's feast on the window...

Lost

Tired. Not of you, but of the struggle, of the moments of silence, dispair, solitude. Of uncertainty. Of the constant risk of losing it all, even of I never even had it.

Scared and alone in my madness, facing decisions I never thought I'd consider, with no backup, no hopes and no promises. 

The closer I get, the further you run. And the higher I climb the harder I fall. I am full of bruises and my feet are tired for running. Yet, it takes a glimpse at the sparkle in those eyes to make my engine run again.

And I gave it all, played all my cards, used all my amunnition, my guns are laying dead on the floor and my misteries are open books on your table - sometimes you look at them intrigued, but some other times you close them and you put them away, for later, way later...

And I act grown up till I'm alone and the monsters show their ugly faces from behind the courtins. And I shake till the morning, waiting, hoping, praying.

If only you read me all the times...