How closely one finds pain and peace. The truth will always come out. Smokescreens will fail. His face turns into hers, and her face turns into mine. We are all twisted and contorted from the discomfort of disillusionment. Past the angles of his cheeks, the color of his eyes, the turn of his lips, there is only dust. Cosmodust and ash, revolving around that center point of gravity. The resting place. What is that resting place? Is it you? Is it her? Is it God?

Can it hold to you? Will it remain when all else has failed?

Or will you dissolve into the ash?