I stare at her collarbone that's framed with lace, the hollow of her throat, her shoulders that rise with each rise with the weight of her next breath. We're fragile things. Our bones show through our skin. What would any god want with us?
In another time, in another place, I wonder who they might have been.
Real’ is a dirty word in this place.
The months fall to shards at my feet.
I miss something I never even had.
Even the human race can't claim to be natural anymore. We are fake, dying things. How fitting that I would end up in this sham of a marriage.