Jurisdiction over Words


She was the wind, carrying in
All the troubles and fears here for years tried to forget
He was the fire, restless and wild
And you were like a moth to that flame

The heretic seal beyond divine
a pray to a god who's deaf and blind
The last rites for souls on fire
Three little words and a question why

Love's the funeral of hearts
And an ode for cruelty
When angels cry blood
On flowers of evil in bloomThe funeral of hearts
And a plea for mercy
When love is a gun
Separating me from you

'Funeral of Hearts' HIM

A wisp of smoke curled around him as he stared intently at the blank piece of paper. Pen in one hand, the magical cancer stick (as dubbed by her highness herself) in the other, both a careful distance away from his hair. His lovely blond hair, sticking out randomly- mussed from her caressing abuse. His eyes, a deep bright blue that she loved. What she loved most about him was when he sat on their favorite worn plush couch and he would wait for words to flow out of him and onto the paper. She would read them over his shoulder, trying to blow his cigarette out and her long hair cascaded over his shoulders.

Then he would turn and mumble incoherent words and reach for her and brought her tumbling on to his lap. He would kiss her, and she could smell the mixed fragrance of smoke, aftershave, and a feeling of warmth. She would laugh and pick up his guitar and strum it, as he continued on working, draping his arms over her shoulders to reach out for the paper. They would be like this all day, basking in warmth from each other and the sunlight that streaked through the balcony clear glass doors.

Sometimes, she went to get coffee humming along with whatever he had put on the stereo system. Sometimes it was Vivaldi or Haydn, and sometimes he drummed his pencil along to the Led Zeplins, or played along with the Jimi Hendrix solos, or he would listen to the funniest death Metal Bands like In Flames or Morbid Angel and laugh over the lyrics. He might play Coheed and Cambria, or Rise Against, or some good old punk rock like the Sex Pistols or the Clash.

Today it was Funeral of Hearts by HIM.

Her first concert with him had been a HIM concert. She was frightened, and he was nonchalant and relaxed and laughed at her she squeaked over the drab and dark clothing the crowd wore. She gasped when she saw men wearing skirts, or aluminum foil, and make-up. She fell in love with the style, she fell in love with the singer of the band- probably the only man other then him she would allow to romance her away. But that was in her dreams...

She prepared lunch as he might stretch and yawn a little before he eats his favorite sandwiches with her as she quietly hums along as she looks out the window. She might come over to him and read his words carefully and add her own words, phrases, and thoughts that he might like- and he does because they're from her. She would laugh and say things that made her seem so modest.
Then he would reach over and comb his hands through her shockingly pink hair, and he would hold her small body close him and drop everything because he could do this tomorrow, even though tomorrow might be to late. She'll tell him the schedule for tomorrow- who he has to meet, who he has to talk to, what he has to do, and she'll tell him what she has to do.

She'll have her high and mighty attitude or a dumb ditsy kind when the phone rings- she'll pick it up and giggle like a little girl or have an attitude to whoever was calling and disturbed their time alone, together. They'd both laugh after she would hung up and he promises her to take her shopping, but he know she's going to refuse. She knows he hates shopping.

She knows he loves her and he knows that she loves him.

[Authors Notes] Some cheap, fun filled romance. I have nothing to say but I need to finish up my reports.