Artlessly (edit 1.)

[nozaki]

edit 1. 
"Do you know?" 

silken, sun-slashed hair

he murmured. His bones scratched like lottery tickets
burned exactly the same

(you're on fire and you don't know it) 
She wanted to enlighten him, but her words would blow
his away 

"南京 is a city where people go to laugh." 
No, 
she hadn't known. He laughed like he couldn't 
stand the world- not all the way-
not the parts that needed to be- so he hoarded
the bits of himself
that really mattered
when it came
down to 
it 

Even as his lips wilted against the hollow 
of her collarbone, his dialect came to life. 
"纽约市, love," lush emotion inflected into a voice
inflamed by strong sunlight, 
"people go to die there. Whether they know it 
or not." They looked out to the world
and knew different things 

He talked to his motherland to death. Wove through its smoke
and its gruel with rich feeling, grief seen but not heard, 
flowers thrown curbside, flushed dark, damp, with shame. 
Somehow, he never drank. The stars fell upon her instead

They were both dark-haired, dark-eyed, careless, brusque, 
obsessively so, lines around their disheveled characters inked with clarity, 
precision, stunning; both best when apart, focused upon 
their art, the brush themselves, the picture their personalities; 
is what she craved to confess, but the world wouldn't hear it

(and yet 
and still
they couldn't forgive each other for the fact
that the stars in her eyes 
the stars in her hands 
the stars in the ends of her hair
in her dreams
had all originally belonged to 
him) 

original.
against silky, sun-slashed hair
"Do you know?" was murmured. voice skin-deep, 
diaphanous; get a grip and stay
still. his bones scratch like lottery tickets, 
burn exactly the same

"南京is a city where people go to laugh." 
no, 
she hadn't known. he laughed like someone
who couldn't stand the world- not all the way-
not the parts that needed to be- so he hoarded
the bits of himself
that really mattered

his language came to life even as his lips
wilted against the side of her head. 
"纽约市, love," 
his words inflamed by strong sunlight,
"people go to die there. Whether they know it
or not." they both looked out to the world, 
knowing different things

he talked his home to death. cut through its smoke 
and its gruel with disposable razors, grief seen but not heard,
flowers thrown curbside, flushed dark with damp. 
somehow, he never drank. a habit that skipped
generations, it was concluded. the stars fell upon her 

they were both dark-haired, dark-eyed, the careless sort of dark, brusque,
obsessive, the lines around their characters inked with clarity, 
precision, stunning; they were both best when apart, focused upon 
their art, the brush themselves, the picture their personalities