08-10-2020, 01:17 AM
when you're dreaming with a broken heart
She watches him with quiet, doe-like eyes, with a strange kind of curiosity reflecting back from the dark of them. He makes her forget about her own hurt, if only for a moment. She finds herself tracing the sharp angles of his face instead of thinking about the sharp shards of her broken heart and what they felt like embedded between her ribs. She watches his face in hopes of seeing the sunlight catch the sage-green of his eyes again, and for the first time in weeks, months, and maybe lifetimes, the pain in her chest feels dulled with distraction.
He is watching her much in the same way that she is watching him, like they are both trying to read each other's scars like a map, like it might lead them to the place they had not realized they were trying to reach. She wants to reach out and touch the scales that lace across him, she catches a glimpse of his sharp teeth and wonders what they might feel like against the satin-smooth feel of her skin.
She feels small embers of hope trying to kindle from the ash inside of her chest, but she extinguishes them; lets every sorrow and every letdown douse them until they are gone. He is humoring her; she can see it, and she wants to have the sense of self-worth to be angry at the idea, but instead, she is only defeated by it.
She is a thing to be pitied and not much else.
But when he invites her closer, she does not object. She hesitates, her eyes again flickering to his uncertainly, but she fills the space between them with her steps. She is close enough to see the details of his scales and the spider-web of scars, close enough that she could reach out and touch them with her lips, but she does not. She refrains, even though her heartbeat quickens at the idea.
Her gaze is cast to the side at his question, though, tendrils of forelock and mane entangled with blossoms and wispy vines curtaining most of her face. “Always,” she answers him softly, as she tries to remember the last time she did not feel overwhelmingly alone and only comes up empty-handed. “I suppose it makes no sense then that I miss something that I've never had.”
She is quiet for a breath, once again looking at him, before she ventures to ask him cautiously, “What about you?”
He is watching her much in the same way that she is watching him, like they are both trying to read each other's scars like a map, like it might lead them to the place they had not realized they were trying to reach. She wants to reach out and touch the scales that lace across him, she catches a glimpse of his sharp teeth and wonders what they might feel like against the satin-smooth feel of her skin.
She feels small embers of hope trying to kindle from the ash inside of her chest, but she extinguishes them; lets every sorrow and every letdown douse them until they are gone. He is humoring her; she can see it, and she wants to have the sense of self-worth to be angry at the idea, but instead, she is only defeated by it.
She is a thing to be pitied and not much else.
But when he invites her closer, she does not object. She hesitates, her eyes again flickering to his uncertainly, but she fills the space between them with her steps. She is close enough to see the details of his scales and the spider-web of scars, close enough that she could reach out and touch them with her lips, but she does not. She refrains, even though her heartbeat quickens at the idea.
Her gaze is cast to the side at his question, though, tendrils of forelock and mane entangled with blossoms and wispy vines curtaining most of her face. “Always,” she answers him softly, as she tries to remember the last time she did not feel overwhelmingly alone and only comes up empty-handed. “I suppose it makes no sense then that I miss something that I've never had.”
She is quiet for a breath, once again looking at him, before she ventures to ask him cautiously, “What about you?”
the waking up is the hardest part
ANONYA
@[Larva]