There is a ringing, somewhere. In the whole of his bones. In the depths of small silences. In the tangle of sinew. In the stretch of flesh over muscle. The sway of her hair, as she leans into him. (Leans against body borrowed and body stolen. Leans against time, accumulated. Leans against impostor, against monster. Leans against one who accepts such words for what they are, though he cannot admit it. To her. Cannot admit it. To them. Cannot. But, he holds close sentence and syllable. He holds close the reality. And it feels as though the stirring of naked tundra. Stripped down to roots. And it soaks in, even though she is so close to him, now. Her warmth, remote.)
Remote, and he feels the gradual tilt of his head. Feels the welcome ache of bruising. The dull throb of injury. As he rests it against hers. Still too softly, as if to ask. As if to seek confirmation. As if to answer, without answering, what words murmur up to him. What words come up to him. (As his fingers flex again, even now. As he feels his breath out of sync. With her own. As he feels her fatigue. As he feels the empty reassurance she floods herself with. And he places marker upon, again. Places soft fact upon, again.
And though something fills or flounders. It beats out time with the eventual evening of breathing. The eventual pull of his thoughts. Closing.
no subject
Remote, and he feels the gradual tilt of his head. Feels the welcome ache of bruising. The dull throb of injury. As he rests it against hers. Still too softly, as if to ask. As if to seek confirmation. As if to answer, without answering, what words murmur up to him. What words come up to him. (As his fingers flex again, even now. As he feels his breath out of sync. With her own. As he feels her fatigue. As he feels the empty reassurance she floods herself with. And he places marker upon, again. Places soft fact upon, again.
And though something fills or flounders. It beats out time with the eventual evening of breathing. The eventual pull of his thoughts. Closing.
Closed.)