He didn't believe that when it rains, the sky is crying because he didn't believe that anything could be cataclysmic enough to deserve a melancholic divinity. Just as so, he'd said, maybe, in another life, another world, maybe if that chasm wasn't so god damn big- he could have loved her, or loved something-
do you like me, house?
Was it supposed to mean something that he didn't answer, or was his silence like an enticement that fast forwarded hourglasses and how suddenly he was standing there half in her doorstep and half with his soul stitched on his sleeve while he caressed porcelain like it was supposed to symbolize something paper thin passion. why do you always have to negate everything!
Amber seduced him, then, and he thought of her, you know- that it was onyx, smoky or familiar. In his mind he connected those two eclipses of reality because they were both a plead for something, and he doesn't think he knows anymore. you want to kiss me, don't you?
god yes, he'd thought.
And now while he withers away to a shell of hollow breezes and white sterile gloves, he knows that somewhere, it's raining.