note: originally posted at sophiste [at] lj and other communities, but posted here for its reliable time-stamp in case of plagiarism, which seems to be rampant as of late. obscure and abstract piece; any grammatical 'errors' were done intentionally, rest assured.


three winters in feathered spring
a romantic egoist

• •

she becomes a layer of white chiffon and bare skinskinskin ribbons and lace. he says, says we are something here and they entwine and electrify, blue blood humming gold. and he becomes nothing, just smoke and mirrors and a dream defied against colored skies: we are, we are.

she remembers and collapses in a breath a shiver a –

sigh is what she does. and it feels like butterfly wings against his cheeks, and she's warm but he's warmer. he nuzzles his cheek into the space of her shoulder and neck, where they dip at the bones where the skin hollows where he kisses her chastely there because you are, you are (a little, not really there, mine and mine). he murmurs not i-love-you's but jacob and bella like jacobandbella because she and he (sheandhe) is here, now –

infinite is what he was and lasting lasting, we are lasting. in her head, edward is snow and lights and glory and love (i love – insert hypothetical blank spaces where names take turns – you). eternity, you are. this is how they are, out of sync but together-together like two parallel lines that intersect, divide, and cross again like their lives depend on the chances, the choices, the facts and the simplicity of math and addition and we are, we are.

he has a harp a heart a song for a spine, ridges and waves and dips and he embraces her with long limbs like they're spiders in the night. he's not replaceable. and he knows this like he knows her with closed eyes, and she says –

neither are you.

and she holds his hand like this is their last. (but this is, this)

let's last for a while.