This is my third and last FGB o/s, written for littlesecret84. She wanted poetry, no names, and pretty words. I hope this suffices for you, Ser. And for all of you.

This is marked Edward/Bella, but like I said, it's all pronouns, so it can be whoever you want it to be. Enjoy. Xoxo

Disclaimer: The poems are not mine. They are credited to each amazing poet.

xXxXx

If there is a

place further from me

I beg you do not go.

- Frank O'Hara

It's the hardest thing in the world, finally pulling away. You cling on to me, but I gently pry your fingers away from my hand. I'm going to be late, I swear to god. If I miss another flight, I don't even want to think of all the ways they'll kill me.

"Don't," you plead, and you sound so small, even though everything about you is tall, wide, long and lumbered.

"I'm not," I tell you, drawing the covers back around you. These hotel beds with the starchy sheets feel so good when you first lay me back against them, but they feel like strangers when I depart. "They're making me."

You say nothing, just roll onto your back, searching for the pack of cigarettes I crushed under my knees a few hours ago.

"So sad," I tease, thumbing at the lip that's in a definite pout.

"Always leaving," you mumble, the smoke clouding your face. It makes me want one, but I can have one in the car. If I stay and smoke another, you'll find some way to make me late.

I press my forehead to your knee. "Always leaving means I'm always in a state of arrival. Right?"

"Take me with you."

"You know you have to stay."

"You don't even want to stay."

My ambition has always been greater than yours, it's true. I can already feel myself clawing at my own skin, no longer comfortable with just my headspace. Something else is ready for me, and I'm ready for it. But you should know, baby. You should know that you're always there, no matter who I am.

"Why are you so sad? We should be used to this," I argue, settling down against the sheets.

"It just gets worse," you insist. "It's supposed to get easier, right?"

"I – I don't know. I don't think leaving you will ever be easy."

You take a long drag, and I worry about your lungs at times like these.

"It feels like I've been chasing you my whole life," you tell me, and the cigarette comes dangerously close to lighting your eyebrows on fire when you rub your face.

"You're not chasing anything." This argument is old, and I can feel my previous indignation rising up to mount on top of this new fever. "I have to go, and you have to grow up."

You whip around, throwing ash against my jeans. I yelp, already mad, sticking to anything. "Watch where you swing that thing, psycho!"

"I need to grow up? You – you – " You're so mad, you can't find the words. "You need to realize that this – us – " You rise up, gesturing between us – "This is what needs the work, okay? You're not always going to be going, going, going. It's going to slow down, and what are you going to have then? You're going to be all alone with your hysteria."

"I'm going to be alone if you and I don't work out?" That's so offensive, I want to cry. And I don't cry – not ever.

"If I can't put up with your shit, then who do you think will?"

"Oh, that's just – really – " I grab my suitcases, fling my laptop bag over my shoulder, and wrench open the door. This hotel room is suffocating me, and you're no help.

"Wait, stop – I didn't mean that, I really – "

What you actually meant I'll never know, because I slam the door behind me. You open it and call my name, but I ignore you. When you hurt, you have to make other people hurt. You've succeeded, and I'm late.

I'll be seeing you.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

- Pablo Neruda

The phone does not come alive. I think, maybe, it was too far to just leave you to nurse our wounds in an empty hotel room. It's not like leaving you at your house, or my house, or a friend's house. There are no comforts of familiarity; the only thing familiar about that room is what we share, and when there is no more sharing, it becomes a stranger.

It has been two weeks of silence, and we're due to see each other tonight. You haven't called me, and I haven't called you. Are we together? Are we apart? Were we ever together? These questions nag at my insides, the insides that usually come alive when I know you're hours close to me. Now, I just want to throw up.

It's this place we go, this room we know. They shuffle me in, smiling at me, and I swipe the keycard to the private elevator. It whisks me up, and opens into you.

I can't see you, but you're here. It's a mess – a total disaster. Smelly takeout, boxers, a bong and dumped over ashtrays. Empty beer bottles, open Blu-Ray cases, some pieces of paper with music notes slashed over them.

"I'll be out in a minute," you call, and my heart hops to my brain, and all the blood in there grows and combusts, and I stutter something.

And then it's you, you, you, freshly showered, barefooted and beautiful, and I can't believe I've gone so long without hearing your voice. Without those crazy, stupid texts you send, and the pictures with their suggestive angles.

"Oh," you say, when you see me, and you sound genuinely startled. "I thought you were room service. I…"

I drop my bags on the couch, fumbling for my pack of cigarettes. I can't have this conversation without a barrier of smoke. "No, it's me. I…"

"Baby," you whisper, and I can't even get the thing lit before I'm to you, wrapped up in you, and you're picking me up by my thighs and butt and anything you can grab.

"Where did you go?" you ask me, carrying me to our bedroom in this familiar place.

"I've been right here," I promise, and your shirt is too thick, because I can't touch your skin like this.

"Why didn't you call?" you ask my neck, bruising it with your teeth as I finally get to your warm stomach.

"Why didn't you?"

"I was afraid of what you might say," you admit, shoving my jeans down my legs. "I was afraid how mean I was to you – it might have been too much. I couldn't bear – and then you didn't call. I thought we were…"

"No," I insist, and then change my mind and hiss, "yes" when you find my nipple with your sharp teeth.

"We're okay?" you ask in disbelief, moving to the other with your tongue.

"Yes, we are, yes – " I ball up my fists in your hair, and even though it's shorter now than it ever was, there's still enough to grab your attention. You kiss me for the first time in two weeks, and it's messy but it's you, because you do and leave everything messy, knowing people love you enough to clean up after you.

"Come here," you insist, rolling onto your back. I like it like this, I like watching you, watching me, watching us as I crane my neck. It takes you only a few seconds to find me where I'm wet and open, and you push in, and I watch, and I love you, and I tell you, and you kiss me.

I guide the motion for a few minutes, but I'm a woman, and we're not born with the natural ability to thrust. We're better at just holding on for dear life, which is what I do when you plant your feet to the bed and piston your hips so your skin is slapping against mine.

"Jesus, fuck," I groan, falling onto your body, and I wrap my arms around your neck, and you want me this bad, so bad, all the time.

I don't know why we're so mean, why I'm so mean. I don't like fighting, I don't like being away. But there's a clawing of independence inside of me that makes me move back a couple steps when I move forward too quickly. I have to be sure that this is it, and with all the transience of life, how do I know?

i like my body when it is with your

body. It is so quite new a thing.

Muscles better and nerves more.

i like your body. i like what it does,

i like its hows. i like to feel the spine

of your body and its bones, and the trembling

-firm-smooth ness and which i will

again and again and again

kiss.

- e.e. cummings

We're creative, you and I. There is so much we could buy, so much we could do, but all of that involves energy neither of us has. For two weeks, you've been scared I wasn't going to show. For two weeks, I was scared of what would happen when I did. And now that we're here, our reconciliation is beautiful.

We make plans. We touch new places, new bruises and scabs and ask questions. We ask if it hurts, and even if it does, we don't tell the other to stop. We promise each other to communicate, to respect, to love. We promise things we don't even know if we mean, but it feels so good to fill each other's hearts with buoyant words. You and I, are we even forever?

You, beautiful boy, you deserve a forever sort of love. You put everything you can into me, and I put everything I can into everything. You do have me, you see, because there's no other man I'm putting effort into, but I'm so young, and life is so big, and I have so much I want to do.

Those are my thoughts when I'm away, but when I'm here, nothing else matters but your hands, worn with years of use, of making beautiful things, and the way they drift down my stomach and touch me where I'm already too sensitive to want anything.

I squeak and try to close my knees, but you say please, and then start kissing me, and nothing is better than your mouth. I found that out long ago when I wasn't even sure if I should be enjoying your taste this much, but now that I can, I let it whisper to me secrets and demands and I follow them, because it's you, and because it's me, and because it's us.

My mind tends to wander in times like these, when the feelings you bring to my body become so familiar I can be lost in their comfort, like talking about old times with a good friend.

it's no use worrying about Time.

- Frank O'Hara

"You are totally useless." I say this with a smile as I dig through your mountains of unwashed things. There are suspicious stains where I don't want to think about, and you can't bother to do laundry when this place of yours came with a washer/dryer unit?

"I just keep buying more things so I don't have to wash them," you admit, watching me sort through lights, darks, denim and mildewed towels.

"I swear to god, I'm going to vomit." I hold up a towel with a green spot on it. "This? This is a science project."

"You're being a little bitchy."

"It's all the toxic fumes."

You walk over and kick the tall tower that is the dark pile. Clothes go flying.

I cannot believe this behavior. I stand, about to beat the crap out of you when you stop my fists with a laugh.

"Why don't you just teach me instead of mothering me?"

I grab my fists away, storming into the bathroom. I point to the bathtub drain, the sink, the floor. Nasty hairs are everywhere; dark, coarse little things – some that curl, some that don't.

"That? That is just… unteachable. You're unlearnable."

"You're making up words now? I think there are enough words in the English language to insult me with."

"Childish," I start, making you smile. "Irresponsible. Lazy. Irritating. Messy." You start kissing my neck, and then you point out that I'm wearing one of those disgusting shirts I've been complaining about. "A know-it-all," I finish.

"Are you really going to start with me when your plane leaves in a few hours? We should be doing anything else but dissecting my hygiene."

"I – I'm just trying to make sure you're taken care of."

I feel your smile against my neck. "Stubborn. Arrogant. Too independent. Overly critical. And beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Everywhere," you finish, and then you get me there, to my finish.

When you suffer or dream,

Always,

When you are near or far,

Always,

You are mine, my lovely one,

Always.

- Pablo Neruda

I hate texting, but I hate talking on the phone even more. When you're far, I text you, because I like to think I can hear the way you say things, even when I can't hear them. It helps me remember your voice, your expressions, like a mnemonic device.

I can't take how fucking cold it is here. Mom says hi, by the way.

I can see it. I can. You have that pout on your face as you complain about things, about being cold, when I know you're layers deep in your bed. If you were saying this to me, yes, that pout, and those eyes, blinking like stop lights.

Tell her I said hi back, and thank her for the scarf. It's so very warm. Stop complaining, buttercup.

I can see your face as you receive this. Whenever I tell you to stop complaining, it's like your cue to come up with the most ridiculous complaint in the world. It's your little rebellion against me, against how much we need each other. And that's okay.

My toes are going to fall off, I swear to god. What's the first color to look for in hypothermia?

Peach, with a little bit of brown toe fuzz, otherwise known as your Frodo feet.

I don't have Frodo feet! You have Flintstone toes. Bam, bam, bam. What color are your toes painted, by the way?

They're not. The color came off as I was rolling to work this morning.

You don't reply back for a while, and I wonder what you're doing. Me? I'm a few hours behind you, so it's not quite dark. I'm hungry, so I'm thinking about what I should eat. A few friends have called, but I have no energy whatsoever. Take out sounds good, but being wherever you are sounds better.

I really and truly miss you.

I smile as your text finally rolls through. I think about what to say for a moment, because sometimes, I like knocking you off your Frodo feet. Yes, I'm the more stoic one, the one without all the feelings falling off my sleeves. But you know I care, and that's okay most of the time. Sometimes, though, it's not enough to know that someone cares – sometimes, you have to know they're still mad, still passionate, still unable to list all the reason you're in love with them because you're embarrassed about the little things, like the way you burp after you brush your teeth or lock our feet at night before you sleep.

You there?

I'm taking too long to formulate a response, because I'm trapped up in my thoughts, thinking about your little things, the parts in the sum of the whole.

I am. Always. You know that, right?

An almost accusing question may not be the best declaration. God, I'm terrible at this.

Of course I know that. You know if you ever leave, I'll kill you. So, really, there go your options.

Oh, great. I'm in love with a sociopath.

All you do is send me back a smiley face, and I think about that smile on your face, the genuine way you do it. The eyes, the wrinkles, the dimples, the teeth. If I can cause that beauty on your face, maybe I'm not so bad at declarations after all.

It is difficult to think

of you without me in

the sentence.

- Frank O'Hara

A week later, I finally take my friends up on the offer of dinner. They're loud, and they're good distractions. The clawing is back, the animal inside, scratching at me to let it out.

It's so lonely, and it's winter, and the snow is cold, and so am I. Everything is grey, the morning, the streets, and the color of your eyes in the picture you sent last night. They're usually bright, the color of go, but they've faded into the slushy snow.

The conversation turns to you as I have a spicy tuna roll halfway to my mouth. It stops comically, and all my friends giggle at me as it drops out of the chopsticks and into the soy sauce.

It splashes on my new shirt, and I'm annoyed. "What about him?"

"How is he?"

"He's good," I answer carefully. I'm so tight-lipped about everything, and it doesn't help that my friends are incessant gigglers. I hate gigglers. "He's far away."

"Turn that frown upside down," is the advice they have for me, and one of them hands me a Wet-Nap for my shirt. It's an old concert t-shirt, Journey. My dad finally passed it down to me, and I think it'll fall apart if I put it in the wash. What do I do?

Why am I so upset about this stupid soy sauce? The shirt is black. Well, grey, faded from use. Just like me. Or something.

Oh, god. Not the tears.

"What's wrong? Are you okay? You guys, stop asking her about him! She's getting upset!"

"I'm okay," I insist. "I got Wasabi in my eye." Yeah, smooth. They'll believe that.

"Do you want some eye drops?"

"No, I'm okay. Thanks." I stand up, dropping my napkin on my chair. "I'll be right back."

I make it to the bathroom before dialing your number, though the door is still swinging when you pick up.

You sound so happy when you answer, I almost feel bad for spewing out some sort of sadness around the choked sound of my tears.

"Whoa, slow down, baby. What's wrong?"

Everything. I complain about the shirt first, like that's the real problem. When you tell me to hand wash it, I snap at you about not knowing anything. Don't you understand the real problem? But you, you're so patient with me – of course you knew there was another problem, and you were just waiting to hear it. I get to it eventually. I'm tired of this, this separation, this limbo, this waiting, and this leaving. I'm tired of leaving while being in a constant state of arrival. I'm tired of transience; I want still. Can you give me stillness?

"I can give you stillness," you promise, and I scoff, because that's quite the promise from someone who has no stillness.

"Where are you right now?" you ask, and I name the sushi place by my house. You hum, talking about the crunchy shrimp tempura rolls, like you always do when it's brought up.

"Just go home," you tell me when the tears start again. I had a crunchy shrimp roll, and you weren't there. "Go home, and I'll give you stillness. I promise."

You've never lied to me.

And then I shall come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.

- Kahlil Gibran

I'm tired of this game I'm playing. This reticence to give in to what we have, this constant battle of wills. It's not your will that's the problem, but the million of mine, all crying out for something different. You are steady to me, like a mother's hand, like the whisper of sheets after a long day. You're constant, consistent and continuous.

And when I open the door to my room, you're here. You're sitting on my childhood bed, against my stuffed animals, my giraffe's nose pressing into your knee. You're big, you're so big, too big to be comfortable. You look exhausted, and I throw my purse at you.

You dodge it, and then laugh at me. I don't want to be laughed at. I feel like everything is coming apart at the seams, and you're there at the end with the scissors, waiting to cut the last thread. What will happen if I give up all this that I've worked so hard to keep unto myself? My autonomy has been at the top of my list for so long that I was startled when I looked up, and you were sitting there at the number one spot, like you had always been there.

"You're here," I state, like I'm crazy.

"Yes," you say slowly, grabbing me by my hand and yanking me towards you.

I curl into you like a wilting flower, searching for warmth. You rock me as my tears come, and I don't even know why I'm crying. Why haven't I kissed you yet? I missed you so, so much and you flew all this way. I'm so sick in my heart. I feel like everything has turned around in the course of a month, and nothing means what it used to, and some things mean more than I ever thought they would.

"I love you," I whisper in your ear, your neck, your jaw, somewhere along there.

"You do?" you ask, backing away. You're so stiff, shocked, like you've been shot.

"Of course I do. Are you crazy?" I back away, too, taking in your shocked expression.

You brush hair out of my eyes that I've been trying to bat away. "Are you? You've never… said that before."

I protest. "What? Of course I have!"

"No. In little ways, yes. Jokes, full sentences with the words 'I love you' in them, like, 'you know I love you' – but never, ever 'I love you.'"

"You can't be – I've loved you for years. Years."

"You – it's okay, don't be mad. You've always loved yourself more, and I've been completely content with that, because I know I have your black little heart. Okay, sorry, don't hit me. I – I knew there was no one else, and you certainly acted like you did. It's like you just skipped that part, you went from liking me to 'duh, of course I love you.'"

"I love you," I insist, dropping you back against the too small bed.

I settle against you, and we breathe together. Your arm touches my back, and your hand glides down my hair. I realize this is what's been clawing at me all this time, this something that needed to burst out. It wasn't tears or anger or lust. It was just truth in the simplest form.

"I love you," I say again, because it sounds so nice, and it feels so nice when you sigh on my neck.

Everything settles around us, like snow. Except, this snow isn't grey. It's the first snow of the winter, the magical one. The one everyone rushes to their windows to watch fall. The one everyone talks about, laughs about, expresses awe over. And when it settles, it sits quiet, like sugar on a cake. Like something delicious, something sweet, something too perfect to even be real, even though it is.

You gave me the stillness I wanted, but I should have never doubted it. You've never lied to me.

So when you finally whisper to me that you love me, too, I believe you.

xXxXx

Thank you so much for coming on this writing journey with me. It's been a pleasure to share my words with you for the past two years, and it's been a pleasure to receive yours in exchange. I'll never forget this wonderful fandom, full of beautiful people, rich with life, laughter and love.

And ser, my first fandom friend, thanks for everything. You know what I mean. I love you.

xoxo,

Lindsey.