coraaliings
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Those fingers, oh, those fingers. They can clasp around his neck and knead his esophagus. They can dig into his hips as though they own his flesh. They can tighten around his hair, push into his eyes, shove into his mouth, and he'd be none the wiser. He'd likely beg for it, even. But rather, they're clasped around his, and he decides he really should beg for it to hurt before it's too late. At least the pain would be easier to dissect than this synthetic, childish display of what both of them have to believe love is supposed to look like. And yet, if he didn't have it, he might have lost himself instead.
They're not good for each other, but they have nothing left.