Title: Already Rotting
Author: Ceebe
Disclaimer: This is not mine; the wonderful characters and concept are
J.M. Barrie's
Rating: G
Author's Note: This is my first piece of fanfiction, and I really want
feedback, no matter if it's good or bad.
Your hand was flat and open on my back. I didn't understand it at the time, why my heart was beating so fast as you stood so tall. We danced and the forest lit up, yet you were the breeze, and I was only a feather.
So young to have fallen in love, mother must have thought, just missing the bare slap of my feet against the windowsill. I came home cold, unlike a child, but with a tingling that reminded you of one. My lips were against yours and you felt so warm and for a moment overly ripe, sodden and squished.
Oh Peter, how long have you been there? Pirate ships are made for little boys these days; you sail away on one, even as I feel your softness in my mouth.
Peter, one day you held my hand, a tight way that I thought meant that you would never let go. When Michael came home, ears pink with stories, you looked so young and so old. He had skin that was soft with childhood, but your hand felt, looked, beautiful, deep and tough, your skin was so golden, perfection is not young.
I fell from my windowsill, near my bed where my mother wasn't, and you flew away, like ripeness meant nothing, and no amount of waiting let me see you again.
Your hand was flat and open on my back. I didn't understand it at the time, why my heart was beating so fast as you stood so tall. We danced and the forest lit up, yet you were the breeze, and I was only a feather.
So young to have fallen in love, mother must have thought, just missing the bare slap of my feet against the windowsill. I came home cold, unlike a child, but with a tingling that reminded you of one. My lips were against yours and you felt so warm and for a moment overly ripe, sodden and squished.
Oh Peter, how long have you been there? Pirate ships are made for little boys these days; you sail away on one, even as I feel your softness in my mouth.
Peter, one day you held my hand, a tight way that I thought meant that you would never let go. When Michael came home, ears pink with stories, you looked so young and so old. He had skin that was soft with childhood, but your hand felt, looked, beautiful, deep and tough, your skin was so golden, perfection is not young.
I fell from my windowsill, near my bed where my mother wasn't, and you flew away, like ripeness meant nothing, and no amount of waiting let me see you again.