with her hands on her knees, she hopes she is doing the right thing.
it's always a little bit hard to tell when she's scared. the flowers shiver in the wind and her skin turns inside out.
a hand brushes over her shoulder and pulls up her veil. he can see her small freckles. the white dress is a corset, nothing but a corset. there are no strings, so the corset can't be unbound. it's just a matter of days before she will rip it apart, along with her skin.
but if she loves him, she will wait. she will wait for him.
she will wait for him to be someone she can love. she will wait for him to slowly burn into a new figure, into a new, original piece, into a butterfly that was always the shadow of a potential.
she will wait for his red hair and blue eyes to dissolve into her hands.
for now, as she walks among the rows of people and the bouquets of lilies, all she can see is green eyes and a pair of broken glasses.
it's silly to think of that first meeting. it's silly to see it right before her eyes. it's silly to feel the motion of the train. the motion of his breath.
it's silly to think they flew on a Hippogriff together. and they saw the night growing darker.
it's silly to picture them standing in the tower alone while the others were laughing. and they could never laugh with them.
it's silly to imagine her and him sleeping next to each other in that cold tent, their bodies drawing up for warmth. warmth they could never reach because no matter the closeness, their hearts would always be apart.
their eyes would collide in frustration. there'd always be the third one between them, like a permanent soul.
there'd always be three segments, all united in three sharp corners, three wide, generous angles.
there'd always be a triad of feelings and a triangle of golden.