After The Guns Have Stopped

Pulse picking up in the tension-thick air,

Fingertips jittering nervously,

Drumming a beat against the airports brittle chairs,

the minutes; seconds; heartbeats counting down continuously.

First noticed was the littering,

Of a dark wisteria bruising flush on their ashen cheeks,

The glacial valley stretching over the bow upon their lips,

The stumble as they lifted themself up with a shattered physique.

They stood,

Hands hanging limply by their sides,

Charcoal staining the weary hollows beneath

Those grazing, deciphering eyes.

The distance is closed but still lies beneath,

Forbidden to touch, to cause pain,

Only tracing the line connecting cheek to jaw,

cold porcelain fingers testing the water again.

It was when they shakily apologised,

that I noticed the salt water embedded in my skin,

And the depth the wound had gone,

That their bitten-down fingernails clung to a rope so thin.

The nights came, comforting, craving and calculating,

It was then promises were murmured with ragged breath,

And it was then that I realised their body was made out of the same porcelain,

Of their mind, each attempting to keep wounds hidden beneath.

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