"where did you go?"
the sound of his own silent words hurt him
like sharp glass that dug into soft skin;
painful, numbing, searing,
driving him crazy.
funny, the pain was worse than that of cutting,
more real, more tangible, and he could swear
he saw red liquid sticking to the
small hairs of his arm.
but that's just the tears obscuring his vision.
he frowned as a teardrop formed an ugly, damp mark
on the thousandth paper he's pulled out today
(this week, this month, but who's counting?) --
it was a bad sign, the most horrible one.
among the past nine-hundred and ninety nine cranes
scattered all over his bed room,
there wasn't one that he ruined
regardless of the tears that he shed.
the two of us can never be.
aoi should've just listened to uruha's words.