I wrote a Luby. ::looks:: Wrote it about a week ago, after I read something. I'm no Luby, so this probably isn't very passionate, but I wrote it anyway. Carbys, don't kill me. Lubies, don't you either.
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"Where are you?"

She looks up, and there's more in her eyes than I've ever seen. I've lost count by now, but it doesn't matter. I'll remember this time as the first; not the second, or the third. I'm not sure, it could be the last.

Her eyes are sad, her cheeks a harsh crimson from cold. Her lips pursed, frustrated just like I remember her. Nothing brings her hands from the still they lay at to her sides, or her fingers from the position they point downward. A sky above us never opens up, and no angels appear as she studies my face.

I remember her being gentle. I remember her being sad and lonely, and gentle. Her face stops when I speak. Her stone smile is something no one neglects. She watches me, knowing very well that it's her turn. More than anything, I wait for her to speak. But she won't, and I let her stall. I'll never know what she wants, but right now she only looks at me with two eyes that beg for a reason that neither she or I can succeed to. I feel my eyes reflect hers, then watch as she looks away. She can see how we feel the same way, and it scares her.

I know her.

Her arms fold over her chest, and she lets her mouth fall. Just for a second as she catches me looking up in anticipation. Her hair like that of a stallion's mane, whipped by a March zephyr, and her smile always hers. I raise my eyebrows, hightening my inquiry. She knows time is running out, and she checks her shoulder.

She's free.

"What?"

And again, she runs to escape. I tire of twisting, but I've fallen madly in love with it.

"Where are you?"

Her feet, two dark shoes, shuffle and make quiet marks in the mess on the pavement. Her lips form words she's debating to use, her heart swirls with emotions that she can't have any control over. She'll hide them, though.

And I still love her.

"Where are you, Abby?"

She collapses. Her smile dies, her fingers reel, and her eyes close. She locks herself away, and contemplates a different ending. Different from the one I've imagined. I didn't dare embellish this scenario's end; I wonder when she'll look at me.

"Luka, I've got to go," she whispers, her eyes on the snow beginning to fall. "Weaver needs me." Her voice is light, no competition against this weather, but everything to my sore memory.

"Wait," I say. My tone is like smoke, match to her eyes, yet again. I touch her arm, and she turns around without hesitation.

"Where are you?"
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where does your child lie
where all your fears can hide
within one more morning's time
he'll come out from the dark
just promise that you'll give him
your morning

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