A mostly quick fanfic I wrote, inspired by a friend in creative writing who was writing pokemon fanfiction :v ;; xxx Thin fingertips like lace incarnate calm him. He didn't even realise he'd been yelling. By her face he can tell she doesn't blame him, but he collapses into her arms againandagainandagain. Like some loop - you're already ****ing sick of it the first time through. While he sleeps you tie tiny nooses to your fingertips and hang them from starlight. She doesn't wake him, just watches you. Are they friends? Are they more complete than even that? You think so, but you're not sure. So you keep flirting like you've never seen a girl before. You have, of course, just never one like her. She's technicolor and wind and the taste of broken glass. Human, if you please. You take her to the Universe Room, show her the way the stars and the planets create the definition of the everything. She doesn't say anything, but she never really does. Her eyes are mirrors anyway. You hate how she sees you - the way you see yourself - but it's okay because her kisses are sunshine and her hair is a rough mane. Beneath comets and earth, dark matter and grey matter somehow are one and the same. Mass you can't account for. You hate how it comes out like that. N is just a variable in the grand equation. The weight of one extra atom sends the world as we know it into existence, but n can be high, low; positive, negative. You subtract yourself and see carnations blooming from the ball of your pointed pen, as if there is absolution for suicide. You've thought about that a lot, lately. The word singes the air as you hiss it to the rings of Saturn - "Suicide." Eventually you're standing between her and open air, wishing on a shooting meteorite that you could have been the prince in shining armor. That's his job, though, just like it's yours to be the bad guy. You suppose it's okay that way. Your mass can't be accounted for either way, so you step backwards over the ledge, smiling like the ******* you are and feeling the rush of wind against your back as you fall through technicolor skies lit by blinding sunshine, teeth gritting against broken glass as you're caught by the sea's rough mane. You see her leaning over the edge and reaching for you, and his arms are about her waist like he'll catch her if she falls. It's okay, even if it sickens you. You're just a variable - N. Dark matter, left behind in crushed velvet as eternities rest in infinitesimally tiny carnation petals of splotchy ink. Without the quantum uncertainty of weak knees and dark matter, and shielded by candlelight, you see tomorrow. Physics has no answer for your chest splitting but it's okay because even if you love her there's always tomorrow. Not the same tomorrow as today's, but still tomorrow.