a/n: no idea where this came from, but...
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talk to her
by lexie
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You look tired and cold and bruised and broken and our one sided conversations haunt me in the night.
I want to sleep the way you are. You can. Racking breaths that overpower mine. You do enough breathing for the both of us. I'll let my lungs burn and gasp for oxygen.
And wonder what they have done. To you, to your smile, to your thick hair that now falls limp at your bed. Pale sheets on a pale mattress in pale room. White on white on white.
I'll give you a kiss and wake you up just like the characters in that muggle fairy tale you showed me once in the book with still pictures.
You'll shoot a classic smile and dress up in the brightest colors you own. Contrast to the shades of white and swear off hospital wings for good.
We'll run down the main street of Hogsmeade in the rain the way we did that weekend when we were sixteen and didn't know how not to giggle. You can break the heel of your shoe in a rut again and I'll carry you the whole fourteen blocks back to the carriage drop off.
We'll drink far more bottles of butterbeer than we should and open all the packages of the chocolate frogs to find the one trading card we have yet to obtain. You'll laugh at how excited I'll get at the last addition to the collection I've had since I was five and we'll eat every piece of candy until we're sick and the chocolate frogs are doing back flips in our stomachs.
You'll take me swimming in the lake and scream when you feel a brush against your toes of something you swear to God is the Giant Squid and can we get out please? It's a bit colder than I expected. We'll let our clothes dry by the fire and speculate about what Snape puts in his hair to make it so permanently wet looking.
I'll want to talk about Quidditch and you'll want to talk about spew and you'll yell about what an insensitive git I am when I refuse to call it S.P.E.W. and I'll tell you you're mad, simply mad, controlling, bossy, know-it-all, always have been. You'll throw things at my head and miss horribly and slam all the doors you can find until it's echoing horribly in my mind. There will be no apologies and no formality and I'll save you a bit of toast when you come down late for breakfast the next morning and brush against your hand as we both reach for the orange juice. Peace treaty.
But you are tired and cold and bruised and broken and I want to know how to fix you.
Wait for you to wake up.
Seconds go by far too fast as they tell me it's time to go leave out, the disillusioned man who talks to someone who can't hear them.
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If I could just
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hold on to this
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