They used to sit beneath the sunrise staring at the crested sky, intangible in its very presence, looming over their contorted bodies. She would whisper something to him and he would think to himself, you are slipping through my fingers.
She fled, his twisted and gnarled ruins, leaving him to wander without escape. He talked endlessly to strangers, to whomever he would meet, because he could not bear the silence that persisted, hanging on. Sorrow and joy, he thought, were the same bird flying for the sun.
He could still flee, he told himself, to some lost distant place. There he would think he was away from harm, her memory like a ghost in the mist as he sacrificed another to her name.