Disclaimer: Digimon does not belong to me, and neither does Julio Cortázar or his words.
Notes: Hi, I'm trash. I tried to come up with an actual story but time isn't on my side and this was all I could do. So here, Michi, for our starved souls. Happy birthday, Clari! I wish you many happy returns, and much, much love.
[12/21/15]
[Hers]
The pads of his fingers are rough as his palms are calloused but, when he touches her, he does so as he would the wings of a baby songbird. And, as such, her heart flutters with the humming of a song only he can hear.
The way he looks at her is the stuff she read about only in fairytales.
He laughs and by the time he has opened his eyes, he has slain her a thousand times.
[His]
Her eyes are like two suns and he has been starved for her warmth all his life.
He calls her by her name, but he pronounces it as 'mine'.
She once said 'welcome home', and he never left again.
[Theirs]
Falling asleep together came as naturally as breathing: none too much fuss, and something both needed to live.
If they bite each other, the pain is sweet; and if they drown, then that is la petite morte.
Love, and other drugs.