02-14-2017, 02:08 AM
He is so still beneath her lips and suddenly she is unafraid, even despite the wound weeping against her neck. She isn’t sure if it is his brokenness she loves, the way he is like glass, a million shards of sharp and agony all forced together to create something beautiful, or if it is the unknown of him that whispers to the curiosity in her heart. But when his lips return to her brow, soft and sweet and as gentle as she had been, she simply closes her eyes and lifts her chin to him.
But then he is pulling away and turning away and her eyes are sad and solemn and knowing when they pool with the shadows in the hollows of his back. “I will worry anyway.” She says and she frowns, tucking her delicate chin close to the curve of a pale blue chest. Then, furrowing her brow at him, she says again, reminds him, “It’s Luster.”
He pauses and she wonders if he has changed his mind, if he’ll stay as long as the stars do and then disappear with the dawn. But it is a warning that falls from his lips, gentle enough to be advice, and she flicks her ears forward to catch the words before the wind can steal them from her. And your man smells like deception. She flinches a little in surprise at this, those dark eyes widening and her mouth slackening. But doubt, or maybe confusion, keeps her silent until he speaks again and she can hear the shape of his smiling lips.
“Yes,” she calls after him, taking a few steps toward his retreating back before stopping again, “I do. She regrets that he had not shared his name with her, that instead she would remember him by his teeth most of all, and by the sad burrowed so deeply within the marrow of his bones. A name would’ve been better. But she watches until the dark claims him, until the black of his skin and the black of night are entirely indiscernible, and she wonders how long it will be before he notices that single sphere of light she had tucked against his chest. It would remain there until she fell asleep, until her mind was pried from him. She would’ve given him more, would have illuminated his path home, illuminated all the ocean between here and Ischia, but she does not have the strength for it. Instead, he would just have one single, stubborn star. With a small sigh and a whisper, she finds a hollow in the deep words and curls there tiredly, “Goodbye.”
But then he is pulling away and turning away and her eyes are sad and solemn and knowing when they pool with the shadows in the hollows of his back. “I will worry anyway.” She says and she frowns, tucking her delicate chin close to the curve of a pale blue chest. Then, furrowing her brow at him, she says again, reminds him, “It’s Luster.”
He pauses and she wonders if he has changed his mind, if he’ll stay as long as the stars do and then disappear with the dawn. But it is a warning that falls from his lips, gentle enough to be advice, and she flicks her ears forward to catch the words before the wind can steal them from her. And your man smells like deception. She flinches a little in surprise at this, those dark eyes widening and her mouth slackening. But doubt, or maybe confusion, keeps her silent until he speaks again and she can hear the shape of his smiling lips.
“Yes,” she calls after him, taking a few steps toward his retreating back before stopping again, “I do. She regrets that he had not shared his name with her, that instead she would remember him by his teeth most of all, and by the sad burrowed so deeply within the marrow of his bones. A name would’ve been better. But she watches until the dark claims him, until the black of his skin and the black of night are entirely indiscernible, and she wonders how long it will be before he notices that single sphere of light she had tucked against his chest. It would remain there until she fell asleep, until her mind was pried from him. She would’ve given him more, would have illuminated his path home, illuminated all the ocean between here and Ischia, but she does not have the strength for it. Instead, he would just have one single, stubborn star. With a small sigh and a whisper, she finds a hollow in the deep words and curls there tiredly, “Goodbye.”