Disclaimer: All rights belong to Andrew Marlowe
She feels content.
Maybe a little more than content, after all, she knows just how lucky she is to have him on her team, despite the fact that they're secretly (obliviously) chasing after one other.
She closes her eyes and listens to the soft ruffling of his shirt, her lips lifting at the corners a little more. She wants to turn her head to look at him, but he beats her to it and leans against the balcony, hands by his side as per usual.
It's intoxicating when the gentle gliding of his soft writer's fingertip traces her cupid's bow, it's a sudden bold move, or 'progress' to this unorthodox relationship they have. He isn't smiling; it's just that writer look he pulls when he's deep in concentration.
With a breeze, she can feel all of him against her, her skin craving those caring touches his love for her holds so dearly in those fingers. Silken fingers trickle along her abdomen, his passion engraving deeply into her skin, every burning touch left scars which screamed 'love'.
Everything up until now has been only allowed as a fantasy to satisfy all of the times she thinks fantasy is better than reality. She's hungry and she knows she's been deprived the right to have a taste of this heavenly sin, even now, she's still being denied access.
She can feel his breath, but it's not warm like the dreams she has, it's cool and nearing cold. He's calling her, even though she can't hear, she knows he's calling her name.
She finds it odd how she can't hear him when he's talking to her, rather, talking at her. She wants to hear his whispers, his sweet, sweet, undying devotion to her. The screaming of his touch, the crackling of his declaration scarring her from a simple stroke of her shoulder, even the rustling of his shirt against her long silken hair could be heard, though his voice is all but muted.
She's going crazy, so crazy; she thinks to herself she couldn't care if she could never feel him ever again, if she could never see him again because right now, all that will keep her going would be his voice. She wants to hear him say it, say them, because hearing the truth in his voice is enough to keep her warm until she can't handle that time of limbo just before death.
And she'll continue to count the days with him here, whilst she can. She's too scared he'll leave her, leaver her from this very balcony, from this very spot, leave her skin to heal from the scar of him and leave her falling until her eyes open. She doesn't believe what everyone says; she will continue this muted relationship with him here where she knows there is no ending.