The devil is in the details.

In the hands, two, three, four, clutched in an embrace that will eventually die but not for lack of trying. The devil is in all the things she said, all the things he never did. In the quiet building of walls, the stone being carved from ashes. In the slow burn of pain voiced only with a “we’re fine” said quietly like an anthem in the dark.

The devil is in the part where the love is gone, seeping slowly out through tiny holes, so small you didn’t see any of them until you were drowning.

Where does love go? We ask this all the time, where does it go? Like it’s just gone out for a minute, and if we looked hard enough we would find it under the table beneath old magazines. The mistakes we make, the lives we watch pass by, isn’t it all in the details?

If everything is made up of the tiniest little grains, built up into mountains before our very eyes how could we have possibly seen it coming? We leave ourselves hungry to the point of starving because all we saw was a big giant picture while the paints burned. While the edges eroded the centre and we thought, wait and see what happens, maybe there will be something left. Because fire from far away doesn’t seem that bad at all.Someday there will be a someone in a somewhere, someday there will be a whole and a home, today is not that day.

The devil is in the details.

I wish we had paid attention.

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