História Misty (blurry, cold and that burn) memories - Nothing but the space left for us to drown

Misty memories from the deep—nothing but the space left for us to drown (the only thing left for us)

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There is a ghost-like touch. It lingers. Whispers through my skin, tracing with slender fingers, hot and sweaty, from the very first bone of my spine, to the very last of my neck. The path is well known.

Once it reaches my neck, I can't do much about it—it is only its way of moving. Move around my nape, so gentle it's almost like I can't feel. I fear, in fact, that if I wasn't caught by surprise, I wouldn't notice.

It aches. Deep down.

And as it hurts, burning, it hits me; my brain aches, tired from thinking, from preventing me to stop looking foward to the thouch, waiting for it. My brain aches and it's like you're breaking through my brain—there is only one thing I can think of.

"Hey, Rin..." I mumble, whispering, as I try to come up with something to say. Not that I am able to: I'm shivering, head to toes, with the burning traces—the ugly marks—you've left in me.

How could it be so hot, almost abrasive, if almost gentle (warm, if I dare), so light... If it is, in fact, only held by the rough, cold breezes that pass by? It slippers through my fingers, too, the want, the longing—the need that comes with the well known feel of danger, the challenge.

But it slippers through my fingers. It doesn't reach you.

I don't try to, too; but, I can't stop making me noticing you. The way your fingers make way to mine—so ghostly, if trying it from the memory; "what was it like, actually? maybe our fingers interwined pretty wel...".

The ghost-like touch burns me, so unconsciously, so automatic, I almost don't catch it.

"Yoichi, would y-"

Now it doesn't seem so ghostly. Unfortunately, seems alive, and in colors: I made the mistake of dare to look at you, now, and oh, I regret.

So many colors. You don't look like a ghost, not at all. There is red on your cheek, the teal of your eyes are misty...

So many colors.

So hot.

Yet, only held by rough and cold breezes that pass by my fingers, just like sand-it falls to the ground, there's nothing to do about it.

"Not today."

The breath leaves my lungs. It also burns.

But it goes to where it belongs, too: to the space between us. The only thing that there's left for us.

(The cold, abrasive and rough breezes of nothing but silence.)