District thirteen is my tomb. I have been buried alive. My body is here and stubbornly refuses to give up. I wish it would give up. It is impossible to be here when he is not. Why isn't he here? I do, I need you. I know he didn't believe me, there was no reason he should. But I knew. I can't do this without him, I can't live without him. I know I am alive because my heart still beats, my lungs still breathe, because I can smell, hear, taste, and touch. But I'm not living because I all I sense is him, want is him, need is him. I miss him.
My dreams are taunting me again. They do that sometimes. I can smell him just briefly in the haze of waking. Deep and rich, the spices invade my senses making my head spin and my heart race. Only it isn't real. He isn't here. I just want him to be. For him to fold me in his arms, hold me against his warm chest that smells like sleep and linens. To just be able to breath him in one more time. The cinnamon sugar in his hands and the warm mint of his breath; the sweat and tang of the sun and his skin melded to mine in the arena, breathing into my mouth, the potent all-encompassing comfort that is Peeta. I want to burrow in and never leave. I miss his smell, I miss him.
I can still hear his voice. Steady and sure, its resonance through a crowd, or its softness across the pillows at night. It whispers though my mind and is screaming in my nightmares. What is he saying now? Has he screamed his voice away in terror? Or in pain? Is he alive to scream? Did his voice beg for his life or for the torment to end? Did he yell for me? Begging me to somehow save him? Begging them to spare me? Did his voice whisper my name in his sleep or before he closed his eyes? I hear his voice in his interviews strained and different, the tension catching in the back of his throat. The raspy shout as he hit the floor coughing through his own blood. Holding my own sob in I silently will myself to remember when I could hear his smile in his voice against my neck when he'd hold me. What would I give to hear it now? Or the gasps and quite moans in the back of his throat the one time we let ourselves give in to hunger honest and deep. What sounds would he have made if we had never stopped? If I close my eyes I can hear them. The sounds of our lips sliding, and our breaths panting. Would he have groaned into my mouth if I had touched him? Would I have moaned his name when he touched me? What would that have sounded like? I miss his voice, I miss him.
I run the pearl across my lips. Its cool and smooth surface steams against my breath. His lips on mine were so much warmer than this. His exhales hot and impatient down my throat. I thought he would taste as sweet as the cakes in the bakery window. Like rich vanilla, and creamy sugar sharp against my tongue and melting through my mouth. But he didn't. He tasted salty from the sweat on his skin and a spice and tropic heat was behind his kisses that only intensified the longer they continued. I can still taste it as he licked his way through my mouth and along my teeth. I have never felt more hungry in my life. It was delicious and desperate and wonderful. I savored the flavor of his mouth so ravenous against my own both of us believing it would be the last taste we would ever have. The flavor of one another the last our tongues ever needed. I miss his taste, I miss him.
I see him, everywhere, all the time. I see him behind my eyelids when I try to sleep the day away. I see him in my nightmares. He screams for me, he shouts in agony and curses me for not saving him. I see him running from mutts, and waves, and drowning. I see him in my memories. Peering around the corner into the alley behind the bakery, watching me beneath his eyelashes at school, and through a fevered haze in the cave. I see him behind the glass of the hovercraft fading away, then safe seated on the stage. I see the ridges and planes that shift along his back when he moves, in his arms when they wrap around me solid and warm, and the tendons in his jaw flexing and worrying the angles of his face. I see his eyes. His beautiful blue eyes haunt me. Looking into them is like falling but you don't care. It's a soft fall both lovely and free, it feels safe. I see his gentle eyes when he would wake me, hold me and chase my dreams away to the lull of the train, or flashing in pain at my deceit. I see them confident and sure boring into mine on the beach so certain he would convince me my life was worth more than his, and then dark with lust and desperation before the lightning flashed. Pressing my hands to my own eyes hollowed and dry from tears I feel like I can't breathe. I see him everywhere, but he's not here. I miss him.
Feeling him. This hurts worse than the rest. It's like a livewire along my skin of both pleasure and pain. I can feel his pulse against my mouth fluttering in time with my breathing when he finally held me again on the train. His hands along my waist and rubbing gentle circles along my spine to soothe me back to sleep. I feel the grip of his fingers in mine, the steadiness just that light pressure assured in me, his palm and mine as one. I can feel him hard against my hip rocking against me lightly in his sleep, me pushing back making him groan in his dreams. His fingers brushing along my neck tracing my braid down crossing from my shoulders along my arm and circling my hipbone. He never knew I was awake to feel that. If he had pressed a hand to my heart he would have felt it racing and my lungs heavy and shaking trying to breathe. I can feel his hands along my jaw so soft and possessive before touching his lips to mine. They were chapped and wet and so warm moving slick and heavy. That kiss started out so tender only to dissolve and break apart in intensity, our mouths and bodies chasing one another. I can feel his vibrating against mine and the slight thrust against my side. We were shaking into one another's mouths exploring in such a messy desperate way. I can still feel him jolt away from me and his hot heavy breathes against my cheek. I can feel that final kiss standing beneath the canopy, the jungle air thick and oppressive. Just a press of his warmth quick and abrupt as our fingers slipped apart easy, senseless, and final. I want to feel him. I want to feel his heart beating beneath my hand and his lungs expand in his chest so I know he is alive. I want feel the heat of his skin, his mouth on mine. I want to feel him against me, inside me. If I never feel anything ever again I want to feel him, I miss him.
For the first time I feel like I can take a breath deep enough that the relief makes me dizzy. He's alive. He's here. I can smell the antiseptic of the hospital sharp and tangy irritating my nose. I breathe it in deeply crossing through the hospital wing. My feet are never loud yet I can hear them pounding across the floor at a speed that competes with the beating of my heart to reach his room. I see him through the window, through the door as it opens in front of me. He's alive and beautiful, all of him, from his wary and wild blue eyes smudged dark with exhaustion to his cheekbones sharp and prominent in his face. His gaze meets mine as he rushes towards me. I feel a relief so intense in my bones with each step I take, sobs competing with giddy laughter in my chest, I feel hope, and happiness, and love, a love so intense it threatens to overwhelm me. I feel….his fingers wrap around my throat.