Goodnight, Heathcliff

I close my eyes and I touch the soft skin of your face with my left hand... I skip it into your tangled black curls. They're also a good metaphor for your soul. For mine.

I rest my head on your bare shoulder and everything in me is fire. I don't know what color I burn. Perhaps there's no chemical element to ignite in the same way that our bodies do...

Now your eyes look glassy and my eyes are raining. My makeup is flaking. I don't know if I'm crying putrid blood or if the color of my eyes is escaping me...

I blow you goodbye, clean the mud and fall asleep.

Goodnight, Heathcliff.