Drabble #45 – Purple stars (they're in your eyes).

You sigh like a receding tide, all smooth seas and soft waves. But your touch is that of a traffic-clogged highway, quick and bustling, sweeping through your body and then settling out. I could fire shots into the sky for you until I run out of bullets or I get tired, but I would still be left with the gun. It’s the price of recklessness. I could love you hard enough for it to leave marks on your bones, hard enough for you to walk away, but I would still be left with my hands. These palms have already memorized the feel of your touch, and I don’t want them to forget it.