It's a trickle in the spring,
a glimmer in an eye,
and everything that shouldn't happen,
because hasn't Ladybug taught him anything?
It's the broken glass,
that reminds him of anger: his father's, his
He doesn't speak as clawed hands twine around dark hair,
and as he gasps as if life is being dragged out of him.
It's the faint shimmer of sunshine in the morning,
when his mind on autopilot
thinks of a girl
that looks pretty in any color and really loves pink.
It's the way the shadows flicker
when he imagines everything that he'll have to do,
and when he remembers that rings don't glimmer in secret
and shadows don't create a center of peace, love, and perhaps even joy.
It's the way her hair falls,
as if ponytails were a temporary vice
and she's the spoken freedom,
and Cat Noir wonders if there's a gulp in his throat as he looks at her.
It's the way that she curls close,
video game controller in hand,
eyes tired and sleepy after a long gaming session and a late night,
as she struggles to stay awake.
It's this:
whatever this is,
and Cat Noir hates that it reminds him of dew made bitter,
to think that they have no future beyond masks barring faces and the dark of night.