Her hand reached for him or it appeared against his cheek once more. A lightness that doesn’t burn him; an unsought assurance that he might almost (he doesn’t) (he couldn’t possibly) ease himself against.
And her voice against his ears. And her voice wrapping tenderness around his name.
’Please,’ she said. A word that unbinds his tangled nerves. A words that blooms his chest with weighted warmth.
Wouldn’t he like to believe that something, everything, if only for this night, could be well. Could be all right.
Impossible, isn’t it? He’s dreaming. That fits into sense. Fell asleep without knowing it, and this is a pleasant dream, never mind that his dreams are never kind, never mind that night brings unease and terrors only. Never mind that he would never dream of her, or of this Christ-forsaken farm.
He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t move. It doesn’t matter.
He lets time pass. He doesn’t protest. He thinks her hand is awfully close, thinks she’s playing a dangerous, dangerous game, ha ha.
(She ran her fingers through his hair. He thinks. He remembers that, or he’s envisioned that, as well.)
If only anything could be like this.
She wants something.
He has nothing to give.
The nights here, the days here, are far too long. And at least he sighs, doesn’t mean to speak but finds himself flatly announcing— ]
no subject
Her hand reached for him or it appeared against his cheek once more. A lightness that doesn’t burn him; an unsought assurance that he might almost (he doesn’t) (he couldn’t possibly) ease himself against.
And her voice against his ears. And her voice wrapping tenderness around his name.
’Please,’ she said. A word that unbinds his tangled nerves. A words that blooms his chest with weighted warmth.
Wouldn’t he like to believe that something, everything, if only for this night, could be well. Could be all right.
Impossible, isn’t it? He’s dreaming. That fits into sense. Fell asleep without knowing it, and this is a pleasant dream, never mind that his dreams are never kind, never mind that night brings unease and terrors only. Never mind that he would never dream of her, or of this Christ-forsaken farm.
He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t move. It doesn’t matter.
He lets time pass. He doesn’t protest. He thinks her hand is awfully close, thinks she’s playing a dangerous, dangerous game, ha ha.
(She ran her fingers through his hair. He thinks. He remembers that, or he’s envisioned that, as well.)
If only anything could be like this.
She wants something.
He has nothing to give.
The nights here, the days here, are far too long. And at least he sighs, doesn’t mean to speak but finds himself flatly announcing— ]
I’m tired.