Pretty little puppet girl
pretending to have strings...
premonitions of parading ghosts
promise everything.
Packages of parameters
parodies of truth;
paraphrased and blue.
There was almost a pleading tone in his voice as he stared at her, reaching out a hand. Fingertips brushed over her hand, eyes locked on hers.
Bad? No.
“No, Silver. Home is not bad.”
What happened to him? He shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t say those words. Master is not bad.
But the touch of his fingertips almost made her feel real, like her hand is truly there, existing. Oh, Mew knows how long it’s been since she’s last been touched. Well, Master does touch her.. but not like Silver, never like Silver.