AN: This is uUcest, in case you didn't catch that.


if there was a way to describe the feeling, a word that could capture every minutiae of feeling and particle of unspoken meaning, if a word like that existed, it would sound like blossoms unfurling and the redgreen beating of your heart.

like the ocean expanding and retracting and leaving the creatures to dry and burn in the baking sun, only to tantalizingly flick back up to the shoreline, little jetties and swirls of water splashing like crystals against the brittle stone.

like the heat of the crimson-vermillion-scarlet sun, burning through your jacket and washing over you with a comforting heat, stifling you and soothing you.

it would sound like rubies and emeralds jangling together, sunlight glinting harshly off every sharp corner and brittle edge, streaking through the translucent gems and mixing the colors on the wall until you could not distinguish one from the other. it would sound like the breaking of a promise and the opening of a door; like the stars dimly twinkling in the dull, muted red-black of night; like the muffled sobs at night, silently screaming of loneliness; like the hair-thin edge of a knife, barely controlling the anger behind thin, pulsing walls, one wrong move and the knife slips.

but there is no word for it, and that pains you; aren't you a writer? you are a wordsmith, a craftsman, you take the words from thin air and bend and stretch and pull and cut and you end up with something delicately beautiful, like the artists from other worlds who make delicate glass sculptures of butterflies and lace so fine the slightest touch could rip it apart.

a writer would be able to pull the right word, to manipulate language to her every whim. a writer could find the word.

you are not a writer.

there must be a way to describe it, to pour the meaning into a mold and hold it there for eternity, to give it a shape. the colors, then, there must be a color, a form, a pattern.

but there isn't, and this pains you, too; aren't you an artist?

but you cannot get it right, it slips away like water draining through your fingers even though you cupped your hands. you draw many things; you draw yourself as a troll, you draw him as a troll, you draw characters and real people and the two of you and the two of you on dates and paper lanterns and flowing silk and light shining through water and softly green grass and trees and so many landscapes and scenery and it just.

isn't.

enough.

so you aren't an artist, either.

and you lie in your single communal space and imagine his arms around you and imagine starlit walks and warm summer rain with splashes of mud on your ankles and sunshine, proper yellow sunshine, at the park and streaming through the transparently green leaves; you imagine words like "precious" and "dear" and "darling" sincerely spoken, whispered into your ear and peppered with the unspoken, underlying meaning that you just

can't

seem

to

grasp.

and then

you realize

you were thinking too big.

it's not complicated.

it is, but it isn't.

it's simply

love.


AN: I'm so sorry that my stories have been so goddamned short lately! I just can't seem to write anything over a drabble!