Down the Rabbit Hole

Bleak

Your eyes always turn the softest shade of blue after you cry. I could get used to a color like that.
Today, the three inches that separate us might as well be miles and there are too many hours in the long, dark night to go without an accidental touch. My pretty prose will not be salve for wounds ripped quick.
Once upon a time someone whispered a fairytale in my ear and it had sounded like a song. Today it just sounds like noise.