06-11-2021, 01:15 PM
Leonora
Still, she remembers what he had said to her.
‘I burn,’ he had said. And how fiercely she has burned with her want for him.
Every moment they have spent apart, she has burned.
And he is here now, standing before her, and she cannot go to him.
Because she remembers, too, how she had trembled when he had touched her.
She remembers how the tears had slid slick down her cheeks because she had not wanted to hurt him, though he had wanted to hurt himself.
He had asked her if she felt empathy for the things she destroyed but she had never felt more for anyone than she had felt for him. (Why? Why had the universe given him to her and then taken him away? Had it made her suffer simply because she had made others suffer?)
She inches closer, though keeps her distance still. She will not capture him in her gravitational pull if she can help it. She will not hurt him again if she can help it, no matter how fiercely her heart beats in the cage of her chest. No matter how desperately she wants to touch him, be touched by him, kiss his head and hold him close.
It does not sound like an accusation and she smiles something secret as she studies his face, so grateful that he is here, that he is alive. “I am always looking,” she confesses. “I’ve missed you,” she adds, breathless. She closes her eyes briefly, though there is never absolute darkness behind her eyelids, not with how persistently her stars shine.
And when she opens her eyes again, he is still there. “Oh, Pentecost,” she sighs and, because she cannot let him go again without knowing, she says, “you have to know I love you.” She swallows, shakes her head, “even if you have to go, you have to know that.”
‘I burn,’ he had said. And how fiercely she has burned with her want for him.
Every moment they have spent apart, she has burned.
And he is here now, standing before her, and she cannot go to him.
Because she remembers, too, how she had trembled when he had touched her.
She remembers how the tears had slid slick down her cheeks because she had not wanted to hurt him, though he had wanted to hurt himself.
He had asked her if she felt empathy for the things she destroyed but she had never felt more for anyone than she had felt for him. (Why? Why had the universe given him to her and then taken him away? Had it made her suffer simply because she had made others suffer?)
She inches closer, though keeps her distance still. She will not capture him in her gravitational pull if she can help it. She will not hurt him again if she can help it, no matter how fiercely her heart beats in the cage of her chest. No matter how desperately she wants to touch him, be touched by him, kiss his head and hold him close.
It does not sound like an accusation and she smiles something secret as she studies his face, so grateful that he is here, that he is alive. “I am always looking,” she confesses. “I’ve missed you,” she adds, breathless. She closes her eyes briefly, though there is never absolute darkness behind her eyelids, not with how persistently her stars shine.
And when she opens her eyes again, he is still there. “Oh, Pentecost,” she sighs and, because she cannot let him go again without knowing, she says, “you have to know I love you.” She swallows, shakes her head, “even if you have to go, you have to know that.”
AND IN THE DARK I CAN HEAR YOUR HEARTBEAT
@[Pentecost]