Decay. Slip.

It was the kind of love that was forever nearing the edge; one slip and it would all be gone. And the slip came too soon; she was hanging on, fingers numb and pale, before she had the chance to ever even apologise. Or maybe she never would have apologised, because people like her had the world at their fingertips but spoke with a poisonous tongue, tainting and rupturing all things good, bright, and warm.

She considered herself a wordsmith, a poet, because she possessed the ability to intertwine one with her whispers, but poetry had never been so cruel as to manipulate and to – wait, there it goes –

Crumble. Grip. Decay. Slip.

This is a fictional response to the prompt: edge.

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