Little wiremesh windows.

If she was the moon, then surely he would be the sky. Dark with every ounce of warmth swirling in his depths. She moved her hands along his chest watching the pale outline move and make shapes. His smile, barely a flash of teeth, was a song sung off key and carelessly. She wanted him to care, and to look through glass into her eyes so close to his.

Moments like this didn't come easily, as none truly do. She forced herself to dance away, the warmth of his arms boiling her blood into a frenzy. Nothing seemed important anymore, not the sound of her heart beating against her chest like a mad man gasping for air in a shallow grave. Not the wind moving around them in circles like an arena of on-lookers clinging to her every word.

He spoke again, as he always seemed to do when she wanting to scream he things she wanted him to know. His light heart weighing her limbs down until she wanted to collapse into his smell. If only the world was made of moments and not events, she mused to herself, turning back to tangle in his waiting arms. If that was so, she would have lived a thousand lifetimes in this night alone. What should have been the sweetest words fell rotting in her ears, she didn't want to be responsible for this heart. He blew his love to her in smoke signals, and relished in her endless dances.

Like the moon she was easily read, like clockwork each night. In a line of perfumed words and cutting blows she would declare and denounce him. An endless cycle of love and fear. He was patient, and truly made of the night in his endlessness. Even in the cloudiest moments when he couldn't see her face through her rage he held her close and waited until she was once again his shining light.

The feel of her hands along the depth of him made his skin shudder. Who was he to her? True he held her tightly, but as he did she received the attentions of anyone who would look. She smiled and it was as if the boiling pain of reality was cooled long enough to breathe once again. When she walked away her coolness faded with her and again nothing was visible in the glare of her non-existence. He wanted her to be constant, but she could never be that person, always dancing away. Always singing her praises in notes that never were.

(Just a note, this is not based off of Luna. New players, I promise. Not to mention, can you imagine either of these two being anyone in that story?!)

It's been my life to find my mirror, to cross the sands and seas.

I have danced on fountains of filth, and pressed my body along the lines of kings. My dagger has been plunged unto the shuddering bodies of beasts and their bones carved out for selfish delights no man can imagine in this world. I have run my lips across shining swords and draining pits of pure white water knowing that the next night is as cold and dangerous as the the first when I woke alone and surrounded by flowers.

I am tanned with the heat of hopelessness, and paled with the desire of find my way home. No man has turned me away, and my poison has licked their inner most secrets leaving me alone again and no closer to the reflection of who I am. I spent so many years trading away all that came to me in back alley markets and long luxurious hallways... yet I find myself where I was. What use is the mirror? Why did I ever want it?

He asked me what the moon looked like, and I smiled at him.

No-one remembers anymore, when the fire burns so brightly that skin and the sand beneath our hands both feed the devouring light. There was never a moon here, and if there had been it was a vampire in the night never reflected in my mirror.

We screamed out obscenities into the weightlessness of our lungs. I will use you until I've found that night where nothing means anything anymore. This will eventually never have happened, and we will forget the nights swimming in the forest trees and training wild dogs to plow through the quivering muscles of value and desire.

There is no love in ... this place because it would mean nothing reflected back to me. He wanted to crush leaves between my lips and throw care to the shining wind. We will do this, and the sour flavor of intimacy will ring through our carved bones. Beasts gnaw at the base of our souls but it doesn't mean a thing. Ghosts don't make the bath water ripple, so a death now wouldn't effect the end.

There is never a corpse in the ocean, because it's simply a stop on the path.

Somewhere above the city's lights and moving people sat a woman in white. She didn't move much as it was her job to look beautiful and regal in her quiet way. The man painting her in his lush skyline apartment eyed her lines and folds carefully moving his brush quickly so as to capture any difference her breath could make to the scene.

She blinked and sighed feeling constrained in the tightness of her corset. Several years of waiting tables in the grimy underbelly of their fair city had left her with a terrible back and joints that ached if she wasn't constantly moving. Sitting straight up with the hard boning of her outfit was taking all of her strength. She had loved the soft velvet of the blouse's bulk, now it was heavy and itchier than she had remembered.

Off to one side a cat mewed idly while it cleaned itself. Dark and long haired, the painter had taught it never to come into the studio area with its shedding innocence. The painter was a stickler for detail and even one hair fell into the sweeping train of his model's dress he would need to paint it. Nothing would ruin his vision, not even himself.

The woman looked around the room for something to interest her for the time being. ...the room was bare, save for the cream colored silk lined sofa the Persian was sitting in such contrast to. The woman sighed and watched it move freely, growing jealous of it's clean movements and flexibility. Why had she taken this job, sitting so stiffly with pain radiating along her bones. Money seemed to be a fine motivator until it became too strenuous for her to bother.

Her eyes moved back to the painter and she shifted as slightly as she could to avoid a line of colorful words on his behalf. He was attractive in all the wrong ways. Not tall, but built thicker than most men in his profession, like in some other life he was born to play a professional sport. She liked men who played football when she was a younger more lively woman, and the way his unfulfilled potential dripped from his frame disgusted her. She wrestled her desire to jump up and take him by the hand and lead him into the outside world. She wanted to fix him, mold him into something she felt was better suited for him.

She wanted to paint over this man.

The road leading outside of town was as dusty as usual. She has her feet hanging out of the car window with her hands draped over the back of her seat. He keeps his eyes on the road feeling the sun of June beating down as loudly was the deep bass blasting from under the seats. They didn't know where they were going but didn't care. An old folksy backwoods hicktown saying stated that if you drive far enough down the river you would find more people and eventually start drinking.

Old folksy backwoods hicktown sayings had never steered them wrong before.

He remembered how she used to look, all curves and squinted eyes. She used to let her mouth hang open in class, a total freak. They hated eachother, him more than her mostly. Her always too short hair pissed him off, she didn't seem to grasp that women were supposed to look sexy.

She got it now.

Back when she was all about church and the god that saved all she had a beautiful voice. It'd left years ago when she traded in bibles for game controllers, and leafy greens for tall bottles of green and caffeinated. The music was turned up as loud as it could go, but she belts out the words with more passion than any hymn she'd sung when she was young. Her long hair was tied down in restrictive braids, one draped over the seat with her hands, the other wrapped around his wrist. He always enjoyed the way her hair felt so soft and strong tugging him back when he shifted gears.

At some point in her life she'd been in love with him, intoxicated by his dark maple syrup skin and blue eyes that stood startling in his face. She would avoid him like her life was ending half the time because there was nothing worth saying to him. Years passed and she's seen what love was about. Sex and promises and interest shifting to the next bottle of whiskey and whoever was attached to it. She felt like a ghost looking at him, he looked like he did when he was 12 but more muscular, and a more sarcastic smile. He'd always been beautiful.

Nothing ever changes with him.

The car slows down as she leers through her sunglasses at the riverbed. There were people there, as usual, half of them splashing in the water like kids. He smiles at her, she settles back into the seat and flipps him off. A hard left turns them around and into the man made trail down to the party. She sighs and turned the music down, laughing loudly. He laughs too, finding her fake joy hilarious.

Usually when you see him it's a jumble of misspoken words and grunts. He'd used that too charming for social axiety smile on you more times than you could count. You hated him, but he got that hole in your gut where your pride used to be to close for afew hours at a time, and it was easier to breathe when you sat in his shadow and watched a thousand perfumed whores drift by. Somewhere between your last shot of Hypno and your twelfth smoke break he had left with his nose wet. You didn't look to see if his new catch was a blonde or a brunette, it didn't matter. They all moved their hips the same, bathed in their disgusting perfumes and body sprays.

When you were little, Sister had a room that smelled like lavender and vanilla. Sometime when she was away you would sneak in and spray each of the bottles on her cluttered night stand until you couldn't breathe anymore. It suffocated your lungs and made the pale skin on your body throb with the need to move. It was poison you told yourself, like the girl who washed away her horrors with it. Eventually she caught you, and threw the empty bottles at you, screaming things she could never mean as you rushed away. She was a whore, and it didn't matter what she said.

A sea of filth is how your mind described the dim smokey environment that you spent more time in than out of these days. Parts of you were glad there were people even more worthless than yourself. Other parts ripped at the hole in your gut, screaming your insecurities. The heat coming from the dance floor washed violently over you, as if in this gross dungeon had captured the sun and took it's time devouring it an polluting its lights.

He came back with his hard hair slicked back. You never used hair-gel, it seemed like a waste. You weren't looking for attention, you just wanted to be there. He could have the spot light.

"Never fails bro! You always stay where I put you."
He laughed and slapped your back, the smell of too many drinks rolling off his lips. You wanted to take a swing at him for touching you.

"Where's your girl?"
The voice that fell out of your throat startled you. It always did, you preferred to assume you sounded much deeper and more husky, like in your head. Women adored this voice though, and it allowed him to pick up as much filth as he wanted when you rejected them.

He grinned and laughed afew times, making the beat around you move with him. Something about her being clingy, then crude gesture, he followed his own playbook without effort. You were able to sit behind him and pretend to care about what was happening. It was all you wanted.

The moon before midnight always looks dimmer in comparison to the later more confident moon. As if like a king once displayed at the highest point it holds it head up and demands your attention. The stars also unzip their robes and allow their bright skin to bask in the moon's glorious grin.

She was like the stars if he was like the earth that watched from afar. He wanted to reach out and touch the glowing abyss that was length of her neck. She never wore jewelry not even a ring. She was too busy to bother with those sorts of things. Not a touch of make up, not the perfume of lotion. She was an angel to him, pure and untouched by the filth of common culture. He admired her in a way that humans admire nature, and his desires were never meant to make her wither like a flower being kept in stale water.

"I will always love you." A woman's voice softly as he crowed at the thickly covered walls. He couldn't understand her, and his eyes moved quickly over the streaks of sticky tobacco slime. There was a longing in his veins for the rusty smoke of his cheap cigarettes. He had none, there was no need to make her breathe in that filth. He'd left them by his bed, knowing she would never fall sleep next to him. The suffocating smell of blood and digested food creeped along his skin, moving his eyes downward to look at her. She looked small and helpless like a rabbit with a hole blown through it's chest.

She was the moon, and he was the earth. Too ruined and ragged to live, too beyond saving.