Part 1: De-railing

We’ve been over this a bunch of times" she said smiling
But it’s been at my throat and my bedroom every....

"I don’t feel like going over it again. Not right now."
There was just something so put off about her. Her hair, the way she shot looks like the common metaphor about guns and stone cold stares. His stomach felt as if it had been tossing and turning inside of him. It was a sickening of a sort that no one knew. The question was no more than an idea whose ink turned to smeared blood on the pages of love letters before it had enough breath to dry.

It was all of how he saw his life played out in the beauty of a person breaking the tempered windshield of a moving car. Her voice touched on that of the sound just under that of making your ears bleed. The very thought of him knowing only one thing; that he really did love her unconditionally; racked him in such a way with grief and despair that he had been forced into counseling because of his obsessive ness of romanticism....

...yet she was still the reason he looked both ways on one way streets... she was worth a bullet and a steel plate but at least shed be his...

Heavy with feeling that the air he breathed could barely warm to carry he could only look down lost in a relative of shame and embarrassment. He thought for a clever line and fought his cheek with his tongue as the street he lived on grew neigh. This could almost work the way of a phrase to break the ice or even the wall between them but the rocks on the ground said otherwise.

They spoke of a way to break his foot in the door as it closed. He knew he shouldn’t speak of it or anything for that matter. She was growing closer to falling into another one of her moods where shed pretend he wasn’t the guy she kissed because she had nothing better to do. His body was numb and felt more like a husk than a vessel. He had become dead weight to himself.