for the inky sting of constellations smudged over zayn's brittle skin. for the planets spinning strange, lazyblue orbits in louis' eyes. for the pull of gravity dragging them different ways in a world too small for the titans living between their bones.
for a motel room that tastes like stale ocean salt and cigarette smoke. for the dust covering louis' fragile, dirty velvet wrists. for empty bottles and moonlight sonatas and sad, sad lovers tired of their own religion. destroyed.

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