07-24-2020, 11:36 PM
when you're dreaming with a broken heart
It becomes easier once she finally decides to give in.
Once she decided she was done resisting, once she decided that she would let him have her just this one last time (she knows that is a dangerous thought – that every time becomes one last time), all the well-crafted walls and barricades crumbled at his feet. For once, she decides to abandon all logic (and hope), she decides that she will wreck herself against his shore just once more. He pulls her in, and she is helpless against him.
His touch stokes a long-dead fire inside of her, and suddenly she is illuminated beneath it. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wishes he would stop using the word love, but in this bright and perfect moment, she becomes drunk on it. “Love me,” she whispers, her slender neck curving so that she can press a warm kiss to his throat and down to his chest. She lingers there, feeling the throb of his heart beneath his skin, the heart that had once, fleetingly, belonged to her. She feels the cracks that begin to lace across her own, like ice that can't hold the weight of this mistake, and she ignores it.
He is against her hip now, and she does not fight the way that she is drawn back into him. He says her name, and already she feels ready to come undone. His breath rolls across her skin, sends a shiver that races the length of her spine and makes her nose tuck into her chest. But he is waiting for her (and what does it mean, then, that he is the only one that ever has, the only one that has never just taken without asking?), and through the ache of want in her throat she murmurs, “Love me like you used to, when I was yours.”
Once she decided she was done resisting, once she decided that she would let him have her just this one last time (she knows that is a dangerous thought – that every time becomes one last time), all the well-crafted walls and barricades crumbled at his feet. For once, she decides to abandon all logic (and hope), she decides that she will wreck herself against his shore just once more. He pulls her in, and she is helpless against him.
His touch stokes a long-dead fire inside of her, and suddenly she is illuminated beneath it. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wishes he would stop using the word love, but in this bright and perfect moment, she becomes drunk on it. “Love me,” she whispers, her slender neck curving so that she can press a warm kiss to his throat and down to his chest. She lingers there, feeling the throb of his heart beneath his skin, the heart that had once, fleetingly, belonged to her. She feels the cracks that begin to lace across her own, like ice that can't hold the weight of this mistake, and she ignores it.
He is against her hip now, and she does not fight the way that she is drawn back into him. He says her name, and already she feels ready to come undone. His breath rolls across her skin, sends a shiver that races the length of her spine and makes her nose tuck into her chest. But he is waiting for her (and what does it mean, then, that he is the only one that ever has, the only one that has never just taken without asking?), and through the ache of want in her throat she murmurs, “Love me like you used to, when I was yours.”
the waking up is the hardest part
ANONYA
