[mature] things we never thought we could be, adna

[bethlehem]

sometimes i wonder, will god ever forgive us for what we've done to each other? B E T H L E H E M then i look around and realize, god left this place a long time ago Will he remember this? When she has gone, will he commit this moment to memory? Will he remember the pulse of her pain or the way she managed to thread it into the delicate architecture of his lungs? Or will she flit just out of reach, too? So many have come before her, spitting mad, gnashing their teeth. But none of them have made the pulse hitch. None of them have caught the breath in his throat. None of them have ever made him so fiercely want to fidget. Is it the weight of what she tells him or the weight of what she asks him that she finds so unbearable? She almost smiles and perhaps anyone else might have latched onto this. Might have tried to coax it out of her further. Might have murmured sweet nothings in an effort to elicit such a response. But he only watches, the expression passive. Not even the heart stirs. Perhaps it says something, though, that he’s noticed it at all. He doesn’t know what to make of her answer, so he makes no effort to dissect it. He lets it mean whatever she wants it to mean as he files it away. Maybe he’ll revisit it someday, this chance encounter on the edge of the meadow with a girl who spit venom. Maybe he’ll wonder what she meant. It’s more likely that he won’t, of course, because – aside from the one thing he cannot remember – it has never been in his nature to dwell. She laughs but it is mirthless, dark and dry. He studies her, tilts his head just a fraction. “And why aren’t you?” he asks. Because if she’s going to show him her darkness, he wants to see all of it.