03-07-2022, 02:54 PM
i can’t stop you putting roots in my dreamland --
She thinks she can hear his footsteps, or perhaps she is only imagining the sound of grass rustling underfoot. But when he speaks his voice is closer, close enough that had her eyes been closed it would have been easy to imagine the shape of him; a shape that is suddenly very real, and solid.
And so she does just that, closing her lilac-eyes, and when his nose touches her cheek she does not open them. She follows the feel of him, finding the slope of his neck with her muzzle. She follows the curve of it down to his shoulder, discerning that he is taller than she is. There is a temptation to trace all of him, until she has created an image of him in her mind, but she is suddenly all too aware of how much she is touching him and she all at once withdraws.
There is a heat in her cheeks, a heat in her chest and under her skin, and she swallows hard in an attempt to rid herself of the confusing thoughts that are tangling in her mind.
“I’m sorry that I can’t see you,” she apologizes, even though she knows it is not her fault. But she wishes that she could; she wishes that she could be the thing he needed instead of just another source of disappointment, another one to misunderstand him. It would be a heavy price to pay, she knows, but right now, she has nothing precious to her—nothing that would cause her any lingering pain to lose. It makes the idea of witnessing death seem easy; a thing that might haunt her dreams, but would be otherwise intangible, a mere discomfort. “Have you…have you ever met anyone that could?”
She doesn’t know why she hopes that he says no.
She doesn’t know why she wants to be the first.
She thinks she can hear his footsteps, or perhaps she is only imagining the sound of grass rustling underfoot. But when he speaks his voice is closer, close enough that had her eyes been closed it would have been easy to imagine the shape of him; a shape that is suddenly very real, and solid.
And so she does just that, closing her lilac-eyes, and when his nose touches her cheek she does not open them. She follows the feel of him, finding the slope of his neck with her muzzle. She follows the curve of it down to his shoulder, discerning that he is taller than she is. There is a temptation to trace all of him, until she has created an image of him in her mind, but she is suddenly all too aware of how much she is touching him and she all at once withdraws.
There is a heat in her cheeks, a heat in her chest and under her skin, and she swallows hard in an attempt to rid herself of the confusing thoughts that are tangling in her mind.
“I’m sorry that I can’t see you,” she apologizes, even though she knows it is not her fault. But she wishes that she could; she wishes that she could be the thing he needed instead of just another source of disappointment, another one to misunderstand him. It would be a heavy price to pay, she knows, but right now, she has nothing precious to her—nothing that would cause her any lingering pain to lose. It makes the idea of witnessing death seem easy; a thing that might haunt her dreams, but would be otherwise intangible, a mere discomfort. “Have you…have you ever met anyone that could?”
She doesn’t know why she hopes that he says no.
She doesn’t know why she wants to be the first.
-- my house of stone, your ivy grows, and now i’m covered in you
allaire.
@arcturos