wow this thing had nice quadruple space things to make stanzas but decided to completely disregard my beautiful formatting so this will be a bit more run-on than i originally intended
it was already p run-on though so i guess it won't make a difference
so now i present to you a little free-form dersecest thingamajig that i wrote at 4am last night ENYOJ
it's late.
you're reading in the dark again.
just because you can.
you can barely see the outline of the book, let alone the ink on the page.
but it's okay. you like to make up your own words.
you do that most of the time anyways.
because all the words were born & live only in your head, there's close to no point in holding a physical book in your hands, except for the part where you want to
just because you can.
because you love the feeling of a spine in your palm, because you love the feeling of paper against your fingertips as you turn the page, the sound it makes.
his body is warm next to yours, curled against your side,
arms folded up against his chest,
breath against the curve of your shoulder.
you're almost positive he would be able to taste your bones if he was awake.
perhaps he can feel it in his dreams.
he mumbles something in his own made up sleep language
& swings an arm over you lazily,
forearm falling just in front of your eyes.
for a moment all you can think of is his scent, pervading your nose & stinging your eyes with something that might be possibly no definitely not tears behind your eyes.
you can feel your lungs filling with rust already.
& then you realize you can't see the outline of your book anymore.
"i can't see my book."
there's a pause that whispers he's trying to pretend he's still asleep,
but he's not & you know that & he knows that you know
so the space is filled.
"you couldn't see your book before."
you are certainly
most definitely
not playing this game again.
"strider."
he turns his head ever so slightly so that his lips are pressed against your skin, & he
maybe
mumbles an apology before moving his arm to caress your elbow. you only get to squeeze a few more meandering words in before he's pressing down & turning you over to face him.
his scent hits you again & the stinging behind your eyes presses forward. you're not sure why it always does that. why the aroma of smoke & seawater makes you
feel
so
much
all at once.
he buries his face in your hair & seems to take your scent in, too.
you wonder what you smell like.
you wonder if it makes him want to burst.
you're not sure what to say so you don't say anything.
your book's long gone.
the story was getting boring anyways.
too sappy for your tastes.
you're not sure when it happened but your fingers are curled into his shirt & your eyes are maybe closed.
you can't tell because it's too dark but there's some sort of relief so you assume you must be finally giving in to the night.
& for the first time in a long time,
as you feel the bed spin beneath you & the walls shed their skin,
all you want is to dream of the moon.
your moon.
his moon.
you can see the memory of the violet steeples towering above you behind your eyelids and for a moment you mistake it for salvation,
& then his voice wakes you. for some reason his scent fades subtly, like he's a little less real.
"you're not going to be here in the morning, are you?"
"of course not."