thuvia ptarth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thuviaptarth) wrote2005-05-25 10:19 pm
thuviaptarth) wrote2005-05-25 10:19 pm
[X] Love Song
Title: Love Song
Rating: Completely innocuous. Except for the blood.
Characters: Pretty much everybody
Spoilers: Only in the sense that this will be incomprehensible if you haven't gotten at least half-way through either version of the series
Words: 525
You are waking into the dazzle of noon with a stretch and a yawn and the memory of the warmest smile you've ever seen. You are opening eyes that tear at the dryness of air and remembering when you never woke and never slept and only breathed slow liquid bubbles, and behind that, although you do not know it, you are remembering holding your father's hand and blowing bubbles through a plastic hoop and laughing at his smile and the world and the light. You are resting your hand on a miracle which grows on the exhalations of cars, dwarfed by the buildings around it but a giant to the creatures who shelter under its green branches, squirrels and ants and humans and pigeons and dogs. You are gazing into the brightness of sun on a twenty-storey mirror of reflective glass without squinting, because you are not looking with your eyes and it's not your reflection that you see. You are licking a lollipop, trying to decide if you like the green flavor called melon which tastes nothing like melon, and your dog is licking your fingers in a silent, bright-eyed request, because he wants to know what it tastes like, too. You are tossing five and fifty-yen coins in a fountain whose water dances to your whim, because it loves you too much to require your command. You are correcting an author's spelling, and your pen has just run out of ink. You are taking dictation and pretending not to see your boss's gaze lingering on your crossed legs. You are dreaming of the end of the world, deep underground, and you are praying for it to come soon. You are dreaming of the end of the world, deep underground, and you stopped praying long ago. You are chopping vegetables in the kitchen and you are picking up a chunk of carrot and feeding it to a girl before you think and laughing like this is a joke, like you aren't watching her mouth with a hunger that's not for food; and you are crunching down on a carrot with your eyes cast down, as if this weren't flirtation, as if desire were not a painful thrill all across your skin. You are lighting a cigarette and watching lovers flirt in the shadow of a cherry tree and wondering what they feel that's sweeter or more intense than the rush of nicotine. You are lighting a cigarette and wondering when you stopped hating the smell and the taste, when you started loving the fierce surge of energy as much as you loved the promising, lying, choking constriction of breath.
You think you're silent, or whispering, or singing, but you're not. You're screaming.
I can always hear you, low and longing and sweet as the taste of blood. I am the scar on your hand and the wound in your heart and the wish you don't know how to speak. I can always hear you. Listen and you'll hear me, too. I am writing my wish on your face with blood. I am writing my love on your skin with pain. Close your eyes. Listen.
Rating: Completely innocuous. Except for the blood.
Characters: Pretty much everybody
Spoilers: Only in the sense that this will be incomprehensible if you haven't gotten at least half-way through either version of the series
Words: 525
You are waking into the dazzle of noon with a stretch and a yawn and the memory of the warmest smile you've ever seen. You are opening eyes that tear at the dryness of air and remembering when you never woke and never slept and only breathed slow liquid bubbles, and behind that, although you do not know it, you are remembering holding your father's hand and blowing bubbles through a plastic hoop and laughing at his smile and the world and the light. You are resting your hand on a miracle which grows on the exhalations of cars, dwarfed by the buildings around it but a giant to the creatures who shelter under its green branches, squirrels and ants and humans and pigeons and dogs. You are gazing into the brightness of sun on a twenty-storey mirror of reflective glass without squinting, because you are not looking with your eyes and it's not your reflection that you see. You are licking a lollipop, trying to decide if you like the green flavor called melon which tastes nothing like melon, and your dog is licking your fingers in a silent, bright-eyed request, because he wants to know what it tastes like, too. You are tossing five and fifty-yen coins in a fountain whose water dances to your whim, because it loves you too much to require your command. You are correcting an author's spelling, and your pen has just run out of ink. You are taking dictation and pretending not to see your boss's gaze lingering on your crossed legs. You are dreaming of the end of the world, deep underground, and you are praying for it to come soon. You are dreaming of the end of the world, deep underground, and you stopped praying long ago. You are chopping vegetables in the kitchen and you are picking up a chunk of carrot and feeding it to a girl before you think and laughing like this is a joke, like you aren't watching her mouth with a hunger that's not for food; and you are crunching down on a carrot with your eyes cast down, as if this weren't flirtation, as if desire were not a painful thrill all across your skin. You are lighting a cigarette and watching lovers flirt in the shadow of a cherry tree and wondering what they feel that's sweeter or more intense than the rush of nicotine. You are lighting a cigarette and wondering when you stopped hating the smell and the taste, when you started loving the fierce surge of energy as much as you loved the promising, lying, choking constriction of breath.
You think you're silent, or whispering, or singing, but you're not. You're screaming.
I can always hear you, low and longing and sweet as the taste of blood. I am the scar on your hand and the wound in your heart and the wish you don't know how to speak. I can always hear you. Listen and you'll hear me, too. I am writing my wish on your face with blood. I am writing my love on your skin with pain. Close your eyes. Listen.