08-16-2020, 08:11 PM
all i want is to flip a switch
before something breaks that cannot be fixed
before something breaks that cannot be fixed
He marvels as always at the softness of her. Of her lips in a kiss against his throat, and that way she laughs as though she does not want to disturb the quiet of the day. It seems impossible that someone like her, like his angel, would have any interest in someone as incomplete as him. He is a mosaic of mismatched pieces, maybe even pieces never meant to come together at all. He is jagged and broken, ill-repaired at all his junctions.
“I care.” He reminds her, almost a shade darker, a shade more reserved because he knows she does not see that in him, and he knows he is incapable of showing her. These new feelings inside him are not enough to teach him how to be something he was never meant to be, certainly not enough to show her what it is she means to him.
She is as imperfect as him in that way, blind to her worth.
He doesn’t realize she’s lost him for a moment, that every part of him has stepped out of her light and into his own deep shadow until she speaks again, her lips like morning sun on the frost of his black neck. She feels like strands of pale sunshine fracturing the dark, and for a moment he is basking in a warmth only he knows he doesn’t deserve. He leans into her touch, eyes blinking closed with a heavy quiet and a grunt of disagreement at that assessment of herself. It is a wonder she does not understand what it is for someone to be given this fragment of herself.
“Terribly dull.” He says, and his voice still sounds like his earlier grunt as he opens his eyes and turns to look at her. “But it is doing wonders for my insomnia.” And there is a part of him that hates the way he searches those dark eyes and the curve of her mouth for any little shade of amusement, the way he craves to be the reason she smiles.
She is changing him.
But he pauses, and there are a hundred minute changes that race through every part of his expression as he considers what it is he wants to ask. It is in the furrow in his brow and the crinkle that appears faintly beside his eyes and mouth. It is the flick of one ear as he considers, and the way his worn golden eyes harden and go soft again, settling somewhere in between with a shade of stubbornness. Then, finally, “What is it you’re running from?” Because he knows it must be something, someone, just as it will be him when she finally acts upon her warning of for now.
“I care.” He reminds her, almost a shade darker, a shade more reserved because he knows she does not see that in him, and he knows he is incapable of showing her. These new feelings inside him are not enough to teach him how to be something he was never meant to be, certainly not enough to show her what it is she means to him.
She is as imperfect as him in that way, blind to her worth.
He doesn’t realize she’s lost him for a moment, that every part of him has stepped out of her light and into his own deep shadow until she speaks again, her lips like morning sun on the frost of his black neck. She feels like strands of pale sunshine fracturing the dark, and for a moment he is basking in a warmth only he knows he doesn’t deserve. He leans into her touch, eyes blinking closed with a heavy quiet and a grunt of disagreement at that assessment of herself. It is a wonder she does not understand what it is for someone to be given this fragment of herself.
“Terribly dull.” He says, and his voice still sounds like his earlier grunt as he opens his eyes and turns to look at her. “But it is doing wonders for my insomnia.” And there is a part of him that hates the way he searches those dark eyes and the curve of her mouth for any little shade of amusement, the way he craves to be the reason she smiles.
She is changing him.
But he pauses, and there are a hundred minute changes that race through every part of his expression as he considers what it is he wants to ask. It is in the furrow in his brow and the crinkle that appears faintly beside his eyes and mouth. It is the flick of one ear as he considers, and the way his worn golden eyes harden and go soft again, settling somewhere in between with a shade of stubbornness. Then, finally, “What is it you’re running from?” Because he knows it must be something, someone, just as it will be him when she finally acts upon her warning of for now.
Illum