It's a lie, she knows, but there is no pain when he touches her this time. And she wants to believe that this time can last them forever. His hand is on her jagged hip and she's opening her mouth to welcome more of his, her hips lifting in response to the gentle (so, so gentle) pressure he places there and --
-- And he stops. Cups her face. Whispers those sweet nothings that are becoming less sweet, and more nothing, though it's no fault of his own, nor of her own. It simply is.
But a nothingness with him is worth more than an everything with anyone else.
Cinzia can't help it, can't help the way she bawls into his patient hands, into hands that carry the burden of knowing the right thing to do. She can feel it in him, see it in his eyes (that's why hers are so tightly shut): she sees the resignation, the submission to the fact that this isn't working. But her nails are digging into the wrists that attach to those beautiful hands, and she's holding her to him, and there is nothing that will make her let him go - because maybe, just maybe, if she can hold on to him forever, then he will change his mind.
Of course, she can't hold on forever, and her mind is too shattered to maintain such an overwhelming thought for long. He is kissing her, shutting her up, pressing the softest part of himself to her as a final reminder of exactly what that feels like before the cutting edge tears through her jugular.
"No, no, no, no," he's moving away and her eyes flash in panic, her voice raising in pitch and volume, nails tearing at his skin in attempt to slow his retreat. "Pl-ea-hea-hease, please do-hon't leave me, I can't live without you, I can't, I c-can-an't." Her back buckles with the force of her sobs, but her grip on his wrists never loosens. Her mind barely registers what he's saying; and the voice in her head that usually warns her not to cry so violently, not to reveal exactly how damn dependent on him he is, not to make herself look the fool, the child, the idiot - it is silent. It, too, has given up on her.
She can feel the panic in between her ribs and it's trying to tear it's way out, shredding her flesh and bones like paper, and with every moment that he is sitting there on the floor away from her, it becomes more and more desperate, fighting its way up her throat and behind her eyes and into her ears in such a way that she is utterly senseless. Lost to the chaos of a panic attack so violent that, in the back of her mind, something says: He'd be stupid not to leave you.
But this isn't all she is - and this, them, in pieces, is not all that they are.
They are walks through the forest trails in any season but especially summer, hand in hand. They are the occasional cigarette out on the deck, and the smiling kisses exchanged between each drag. They are the grocery list that evolves with each new diet or craving. They are the sleepy Sunday mornings spent in half-sleep, each of them moving around every ten minutes, but always settling in a new position tangled together. They are the fights about whether or not to get married now or wait. They are the slamming of car doors when one of them messes up the schedule. They are the tissues that littered the floor the week her mother died, and they are even more tissues on the floor from the day that he told her about his father. They are picture frames, immortalized, captured in stillness and smiling for all their worth - not because they have to, but because they genuinely feel the happiness that inspires such expressions. They are... love.
She's quieted at these thoughts, praying that he can read her mind and witness all the beautiful memories. But perhaps he doesn't need to. He has memories of his own - and they will remind him, just as they have, her.
"Sweetheart.." Her hands have finally let go, and like him, they move to cup his face, asking for its weight, reassuring, saying you can trust me. I will hold you - no weight is too great when it is you in the palm of my hand.
"Come to bed. It's just a bad night." Her fingers slide up and run along the length of his shaggy iridescent green-red black hair, soothing the poor boy, and softly pushing his head into the palm of her other hand. "I love you, and I choose you. And I choose to find a way past this." Her voice is low, her eyes wander sometimes, to his lips, his freckles, his nose - but always back again to his eyes. Where she belongs.
"Come to bed baby boy, and we will talk in the morning."
"My aunt gave me a number to a healer - a real one. She's booked full, but I want to see her."
"I want us to see her."
"Please, Adrian, my love - won't you come to bed..."
Cinzia
cobalt skies like midnight lies
warm hellos and cold goodbyes