( He knows the game, the steps, for all he dallies ever two-three-nine behind. Feet fumbling, rhythm broken. The dead drive him form —

Lips on his cheeks are a cold crescent, callous. They peel away like petals, thin, to leave behind cresting goosebumps. He has lost something, here and now. A moment. A meaning, a purpose.

Wei Ying withdraws in that last vestigial shelter permitted to him: his own person. )

...sleep beside me. I may. ( As if they have the time for sweet things and epiphanies. As if they do not know better. )