He could always find a new rift to lodge himself in the small of her back. Waiting, sleeping, awaking, and watching. He would slide up onto its edge, strike-slipping the lumbar and inducing every vertebrae in tremor. Bone by bone he would push the pads of his fingers up her spine, permanently stamping his print into her back, until she could feel his long, cold fingers wrap around the front of her neck. That familiar warmth. That nauseating tenderness. She imagines embracing those hands with her own. Tiny and grey. Clammy and lifeless. She imagines giving in, sinking back into his chest. Feeling small again, but feeling something. With every shaky exhale his fingers tighten. The translucency of her skin succombs to the blood that steadily travels up her neck and to her cheeks. People are staring at us. She freezes with the burn, suffocating with his heavy breath, helpless in the ratio of their bodies. This is the only affection he knows. That all consuming terrible, terrible love. And there is no one that knows her this well. No one else with the recipe to devour her whole. She can feel his indignation eating at her viscera, sucking at her lungs. Leave me alone. Leave me the fuck alone. And he leaves.

Revealing the white stripes on her skin, she quickly fills in the void with her own red. Abandoned and weak. People are staring at me. Her skin starts growing over the rift in her back and she returns to a delicate state of safety but never shaking free of his whispers. I will see you again.