they are alive, alone, bones holding up the weight of the silence of the world. ash is heavy in their mouths as the endless static in their ears rises to fever pitch. scarlet turned to rust crusts under fingernails, and it smells like copper and gunpowder and a little like bad decisions mixed with frenzied freezerburn. their hearts are supersonic, supernova, supermassive, flooding bodies with spiral galaxies, dowsed with arson and smelling like murder. fireflies flash in places where caution should be, lighting the way for flying dangerously close to the sun, but the city just looks awfully small from the rooftops.

corners cut for a dizzying rush, daring whatever gods there are to stop them as road whirls underfoot and stars are just within reach. they speak in swatches of ink, rorschach tests decoded easily in the infinity of the space between their fingers. when their breath frosts in front of them like opalline aura quartz, the shimmer thrown off can burn down a thousand cities, and the flame melts their hearts to a crucible of stolen glances, stolen moments, stolen time. they destroy themselves chasing uncertain sunrises, but they'll never look back.

the light is so dangerously bright it hurts when it radiates from their black hearts, dyed by gunpowder, gasoline, and soft moments too acidic to touch without feeling the burn.