Drabble, Pandora's box. Ron/Draco. PG. 29th Sept 2003.
Sometimes I cry, just because I am nothing; good, pure... nothing like you. Nothing like the spring, instead I am the cold winter that brushes and weaves, leaving an icy trail in its path... destruction, death. That it what I am, though you don't see it.
You believe I can change, you don't see the cold, the frost, you are the spring... making things live, or you are the autumn... bringing about change, how could I let you love me?
Glancing, kissing, touches... tastes, all this is what I would be willing to give to you if I didn't know that it would infect you, bringing you down to my level; as much as I shiver with pleasure at that thought... I never could.
In some ways your like the snow – so effortlessly pure, so pristine, so untouched... but I've touched and I've tasted and I danced in the sunbeams that sway from your hair and your pure blue eyes... eyes that are infected with laughter, so full and happy that it is like a disease; you pass on your disease.
But never to me, my eyes never shone with laughter.
My eyes have only ever shone with pain, pain of maturity, of responsibility... pain of being me. I never asked for my role in life, how could I want to be me when I only maim and kill? How can I be considered pure when I've looked into the face of tenderness and spat?
How can I carry on?
How?
Sometimes I cry, just because I am nothing; good, pure... nothing like you. Nothing like the spring, instead I am the cold winter that brushes and weaves, leaving an icy trail in its path... destruction, death. That it what I am, though you don't see it.
You believe I can change, you don't see the cold, the frost, you are the spring... making things live, or you are the autumn... bringing about change, how could I let you love me?
Glancing, kissing, touches... tastes, all this is what I would be willing to give to you if I didn't know that it would infect you, bringing you down to my level; as much as I shiver with pleasure at that thought... I never could.
In some ways your like the snow – so effortlessly pure, so pristine, so untouched... but I've touched and I've tasted and I danced in the sunbeams that sway from your hair and your pure blue eyes... eyes that are infected with laughter, so full and happy that it is like a disease; you pass on your disease.
But never to me, my eyes never shone with laughter.
My eyes have only ever shone with pain, pain of maturity, of responsibility... pain of being me. I never asked for my role in life, how could I want to be me when I only maim and kill? How can I be considered pure when I've looked into the face of tenderness and spat?
How can I carry on?
How?