Just a black cloud that smothers you and holds you down so that you can't
breathe.
A cloud of death that won't disperse until the job is done.
It makes me sick to think about it, still. The things I've done to people, and still, nothing has been able to make the sour bile tang the back of my throat like her fall. I still can't think of it like her death, her final swansong, her leap of faith. In my mind, it's just her fall.
I love her, you know. Of course you do; after all, you are an extension of me, and I have always known, even when I tried to forget and even when I hated her for trying to make me a man. I always knew, and I still do know. But I hate her, I think, just a little, and that will fade: I hate her for leaving, even though it was me who left first. I sometimes feel at night like she's lying with me, and she's saying "You left first, so don't get all cranky when I tried."
It was so much less permanent when I did it, though.
Just a fog that you can't walk through.
One that no light comes through from the other side.
"What I want from you, I can never have."
She was the first one to say it, and probably she felt it more than me, but I could never have what I wanted, either. I could never grow old with her; only watch her as the years eroded her spirit or her looks and curse this body of mine that will live forever. I could always look but not touch; I could only stand out of the way and offer sideline love. I could never truly feel like we were a real couple, even when we were. I could never pretend that everything would turn out all
right in the end, and in a way, I'm glad. Because pretenses are like dreams, hopes, ambitions,
hearts -- when they are broken, it hurts.
I sometimes wonder if I'll ever see her again, standing in front of me and saying my name, and sometimes I even let myself hope it, though I try not to, because hopes are futile, always. You see the happy ending but you never see what comes after it. There are no real endings, after all, not when you're dead, and I should know. I have been for a very long time.
Just the cold steel, and happy dark
The easy breathing of one who is drugged
And sometimes, you know, I look at that stake of mine that I carry, and I think of her, and I think of other things.
How she should have held my hand and taken me with her when she fell, and how -- and how -
And how for vampires there are few kinds of suicide.
Just an ending that comes sooner than expected
Like a video that runs out before the credits start.
A cloud of death that won't disperse until the job is done.
It makes me sick to think about it, still. The things I've done to people, and still, nothing has been able to make the sour bile tang the back of my throat like her fall. I still can't think of it like her death, her final swansong, her leap of faith. In my mind, it's just her fall.
I love her, you know. Of course you do; after all, you are an extension of me, and I have always known, even when I tried to forget and even when I hated her for trying to make me a man. I always knew, and I still do know. But I hate her, I think, just a little, and that will fade: I hate her for leaving, even though it was me who left first. I sometimes feel at night like she's lying with me, and she's saying "You left first, so don't get all cranky when I tried."
It was so much less permanent when I did it, though.
Just a fog that you can't walk through.
One that no light comes through from the other side.
"What I want from you, I can never have."
She was the first one to say it, and probably she felt it more than me, but I could never have what I wanted, either. I could never grow old with her; only watch her as the years eroded her spirit or her looks and curse this body of mine that will live forever. I could always look but not touch; I could only stand out of the way and offer sideline love. I could never truly feel like we were a real couple, even when we were. I could never pretend that everything would turn out all
right in the end, and in a way, I'm glad. Because pretenses are like dreams, hopes, ambitions,
hearts -- when they are broken, it hurts.
I sometimes wonder if I'll ever see her again, standing in front of me and saying my name, and sometimes I even let myself hope it, though I try not to, because hopes are futile, always. You see the happy ending but you never see what comes after it. There are no real endings, after all, not when you're dead, and I should know. I have been for a very long time.
Just the cold steel, and happy dark
The easy breathing of one who is drugged
And sometimes, you know, I look at that stake of mine that I carry, and I think of her, and I think of other things.
How she should have held my hand and taken me with her when she fell, and how -- and how -
And how for vampires there are few kinds of suicide.
Just an ending that comes sooner than expected
Like a video that runs out before the credits start.
