08-20-2019, 11:18 PM
He does not know her.
She’d told him as much, insisted it, spat it at him.
He knows that he does not her.
But the way she battles against her baser instincts is not lost on him.
He sees it in the way a glint of light flits across her dark face and the way she immediately extinguishes it. Does he want her to smile? Does he want her to laugh? Does he want her to cross the great expanse between and press her mouth into the soft spot where his neck meets his shoulder?
Certainly he wants to touch her, to breathe her. But he does not trust himself to go to her. He is perhaps too tired to weather the storm of his own anger, the rage that swells and bursts in the cavern of his chest when all that softness spirals through the network of his muddy veins. He was not built for tenderness or love or the affection they had exchanged. He is built for nothing besides leaving.
He nods his understanding and casts a cursory glance into the shadows that gather around them. Perhaps he had chosen this place simply because it reminded him of the place where they’d met. Because it reminded him of her.
“It reminds me of someplace I’ve been before,” he says and there is a faint tendril of humor in this, too. He trusts that she will understand the joke. Or what vaguely resembles a joke anyway. He does not laugh. Does not smirk or grin, just goes on watching her, warring against his want for her to come closer, to bend herself around him again.
She’d told him as much, insisted it, spat it at him.
He knows that he does not her.
But the way she battles against her baser instincts is not lost on him.
He sees it in the way a glint of light flits across her dark face and the way she immediately extinguishes it. Does he want her to smile? Does he want her to laugh? Does he want her to cross the great expanse between and press her mouth into the soft spot where his neck meets his shoulder?
Certainly he wants to touch her, to breathe her. But he does not trust himself to go to her. He is perhaps too tired to weather the storm of his own anger, the rage that swells and bursts in the cavern of his chest when all that softness spirals through the network of his muddy veins. He was not built for tenderness or love or the affection they had exchanged. He is built for nothing besides leaving.
He nods his understanding and casts a cursory glance into the shadows that gather around them. Perhaps he had chosen this place simply because it reminded him of the place where they’d met. Because it reminded him of her.
“It reminds me of someplace I’ve been before,” he says and there is a faint tendril of humor in this, too. He trusts that she will understand the joke. Or what vaguely resembles a joke anyway. He does not laugh. Does not smirk or grin, just goes on watching her, warring against his want for her to come closer, to bend herself around him again.