The room was cool with delicate rays of light streaming from the windows onto your hands where the skin illuminated; catching light and burning. The sky was bright and blue but unpleasant in a way that made you dizzy to the point of being sick, a way that made your eyes sore and wet, a way that made you draw the blinds and retreat back into things dim and grey.
Through the blinds, light cunningly snaked through the cracks, leaving a dark and unsettling but constant pattern on the table and your hands and the room was so dark now that the light burned hotter than ever before.
You moved your hands under the hot light, watching the lines of sunlight arc and drop and it fascinated you so much that you stopped and wondered if the light would burn through the hairs and meat on your arms and through the bones if you were still long enough.
You sat there, letting the sunlight cut through you, leaving your arms jagged and grotesque.
You wondered how I found this beautiful, how I could watch you in the dark and find the light pretty and endearing and you wondered how I could reach over and hold your hand, how I could love you even when the words you spoke were ugly, wet and rotten.
I whispered that I love you, that you are perfect and that you are well; I tell you things that you hate to hear, things that anger you, things that hurt you. I whispered as I trace the tips of your fingernails, the tips of your lashes and the corner of your mouth.
I moved to you; to the cooler side of the room, to the burning light and to the blinds. I moved closer and closer until the dim and grey were behind me, until I could feel your skin on mine so that we could be jagged and grotesque together.