the world ends: it looks like the chrysanthemums made of kois,
the paper with folded marks,
framed by what his imagined ocean—
the sight of it almost knocks him as if confronted by a wave.
together, he and Hatsue turned their backs on Suna's dogma,
but Sasori adheres to them like he hasn't broken one rule; surely,
obedience is enough to keep her here.
Safe. Long enough to find a way for them to leave.
the world ends: it looks like the easel and paints
where he reserved a spot for her; he pockets
his dizzying daydreams from his workbench
and wait for the world's reverse.
the world ends: it looks like accusing eyes —
a beat
drunk on the touch of their lips;
nothing heals from this.
Should someone dare to peel his skin carelessly,
with their tainted hands,
and find Hatsue buried there;
he hated her
is all he'd say.
the world ends: it is in Konoha
he finds her, well-adjusted and free
to paint and have become
Orochimaru's prized researcher —
it leaves him (she left him)
disconcerted, breathless,
betrayed;
so he empties his veins, dredge of the relics of her presence.
But, should the day comes
when Hatsue discover
what was buried in his skin,
he never missed her
is all he'd say.