08-10-2015, 10:57 PM
| — A D A L I N E — your mouth is poison; your mouth is wine (you think your dreams are the same as mine) He says that he will never leave her, and although she desperately wishes that she could believe him, there is something that flares in her belly telling her that is not true. One day, he will find someone (or already has) who will pull him out into the ocean like a siren; one day, someone will find the glory of his body and the achingly perfect curve of his smile and worship him for the god that he was. But, today, he lies and tells her that he will never leave her, and it is enough to stay the sickness that boils in her belly. It is enough to pause the venom of jealousy spreading through her papery veins—enough to ease the anxious tension pulling her nerves taut as wires. So she breathes out and the sound is soft, her exhale filling up the space between them as a tangible sign of her relief. “Promise?” she whispers softly and her lips rest against his neck, a possessive move that comes across more as tenderness—although not wrongfully so. “I don’t know what I would do if you did,” she confesses and tries to ignore the confusion rising her breast and clogging her throat. She shakes her delicate head, sending the silky, nearly translucent strands of her forelock flying. “I need you,” another confession she wraps tight and hands to him, pressing it into his palm for safekeeping. She needed him in ways she did not understand and could not explain; she needed him as the birds needed the wind and the trees needed their roots and the ocean needed its salt. He was an integral part of her, and when she breathes in, all she can taste, all she can smell, is him. |