03-03-2016, 10:42 PM
lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all.
but lend me your heart and i'll just let you fall.
but lend me your heart and i'll just let you fall.
"You don't make me uncomfortable." He insists, though his usually steady baritone cracks at the end, revealing the fissures he was trying to sew together before she could notice. He studies her closely as she gazes to the once barren branches of now blossoming trees, to the brilliant, bare blue sky, momentarily lost in its allure and soon he is lost in her. The way her lashes shield away her telling doe eyes and the quiver of her lip when she is deep in thought draws him in deeper; pulls him in tighter. She is not unlike the ebb and flow of the ocean tide, wavering between clarity and momentary obscurity, entrapping him in the embrace of his own unsated curiosity.
He was not usually so easily drawn in, like a moth to a flame, drunken by the inner light that seems to radiate from her flesh, but she too was different - and it this that leaves him most uneasy. His attention is not often ensnared so completely by another, but there is something in the way she looks through him (and yet doesn't, as she would surely have had added a tint of red to her softly lined cheeks if she could see what he was thinking). He does not have long to linger on the thought, suddenly aware and present within the moment as she begins to close in on the space between them. He can taste her warm breath and feel the warmth exuding from her gentle, sloping curves, and again his heart begins to pound. It rattles against his rib cage, thumping distantly deep within his ears. A slow bass to a rhythm he was not certain he could keep up with.
Her nose, painted the perfect shade of rose and alabaster, brushes across his forelock, pushing it out of the way of his searing eyes. He cannot look away from her, and when she begins to soften, he does too. The tension seems to slide away from his limbs; his sinewy muscle shifting and rippling beneath the taut, scarred obsidian pelt. He closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation as the warm breeze begins to trickle and lace between their bodies, enveloping them in the heat of the vernal equinox and the soothing rays of sun that bathe the flourishing land in its light.
When he opens them again, his crimson eyes searching for her own, he finds she has looked away from him, her gaze cast downward with a looming shame that delved deeper than the surface. It is his turn to reach out now, his own cheek brushing against hers as he pushes her own black forelock away from her eyes. Different, she utters, and he begins to understand. She has been soothed by his presence alone, and though he finds himself to unravel to her touch and her spoken word, there is something about him she cannot penetrate. His many fragmented memories of heartbreak and longing remain under tight lock and key, bound so tightly within the recesses of his mind that even he has struggled to retrieve them.
This deep, impenetrable secrecy cloaks the entirety of his mind, and he realizes what she means by different. She can read the thoughts of many, but not his. He is a untouchable enigma, a undisturbed conundrum of thoughts and ideas and she seems relieved by this revelation. The voices she is plagued and haunted by are not her own, but of someone else. Someone she barely knows, or maybe does not know at all. As the pieces begin to come together, their jagged edges fitting perfectly, she finally says it aloud.
A mindreader.
"And you cannot read mine." He finishes for her, breathless at her confession. He had never known anyone with such a capability, nor had he imagined the suffering that may inevitably follow such a powerful, uncontrollable gift. He brushes his lips across her cheek, murmuring gently to her, his breath hot against the curve of her ear. "I have lived many, many years, most of which have been unpleasant. I try to keep my mind an empty slate - to not remember. To not have to relive those memories and the thoughts that always follow."
He pauses. And then, with rousing truth, "You probably don't want to know what I'm thinking right now .. and I don't even yet know your name."
He was not usually so easily drawn in, like a moth to a flame, drunken by the inner light that seems to radiate from her flesh, but she too was different - and it this that leaves him most uneasy. His attention is not often ensnared so completely by another, but there is something in the way she looks through him (and yet doesn't, as she would surely have had added a tint of red to her softly lined cheeks if she could see what he was thinking). He does not have long to linger on the thought, suddenly aware and present within the moment as she begins to close in on the space between them. He can taste her warm breath and feel the warmth exuding from her gentle, sloping curves, and again his heart begins to pound. It rattles against his rib cage, thumping distantly deep within his ears. A slow bass to a rhythm he was not certain he could keep up with.
Her nose, painted the perfect shade of rose and alabaster, brushes across his forelock, pushing it out of the way of his searing eyes. He cannot look away from her, and when she begins to soften, he does too. The tension seems to slide away from his limbs; his sinewy muscle shifting and rippling beneath the taut, scarred obsidian pelt. He closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation as the warm breeze begins to trickle and lace between their bodies, enveloping them in the heat of the vernal equinox and the soothing rays of sun that bathe the flourishing land in its light.
When he opens them again, his crimson eyes searching for her own, he finds she has looked away from him, her gaze cast downward with a looming shame that delved deeper than the surface. It is his turn to reach out now, his own cheek brushing against hers as he pushes her own black forelock away from her eyes. Different, she utters, and he begins to understand. She has been soothed by his presence alone, and though he finds himself to unravel to her touch and her spoken word, there is something about him she cannot penetrate. His many fragmented memories of heartbreak and longing remain under tight lock and key, bound so tightly within the recesses of his mind that even he has struggled to retrieve them.
This deep, impenetrable secrecy cloaks the entirety of his mind, and he realizes what she means by different. She can read the thoughts of many, but not his. He is a untouchable enigma, a undisturbed conundrum of thoughts and ideas and she seems relieved by this revelation. The voices she is plagued and haunted by are not her own, but of someone else. Someone she barely knows, or maybe does not know at all. As the pieces begin to come together, their jagged edges fitting perfectly, she finally says it aloud.
A mindreader.
"And you cannot read mine." He finishes for her, breathless at her confession. He had never known anyone with such a capability, nor had he imagined the suffering that may inevitably follow such a powerful, uncontrollable gift. He brushes his lips across her cheek, murmuring gently to her, his breath hot against the curve of her ear. "I have lived many, many years, most of which have been unpleasant. I try to keep my mind an empty slate - to not remember. To not have to relive those memories and the thoughts that always follow."
He pauses. And then, with rousing truth, "You probably don't want to know what I'm thinking right now .. and I don't even yet know your name."
OFFSPRING