His Letters
Disclaimer: i own nothing
A/N: just a little one-shot. i got bored and wanted to post something. originally a little thingy i wrote about some other guy but i switched it around a little, mostly at the end.
I know his handwriting. I know his print, the curve of his letters. How much pressure he applies to the paper. I know his hands; the right which applies he ink to paper and pours those words, the left which holds the paper steady. I know his arms, hard from a days work and play; his legs, the same. I know his eyes – blue – a reflection of a beautiful morning sky. His hair, blonde, soft between my fingertips at a time when I was able to hold him. I know his smile. A smile that spreads like light in the night and is given so rarely, it's a treasure. And I know his voice. His light voice that I long to hear in my ears, proclaiming his love for me, for all to know. In the end, though, it all comes down to his letters. His letters. Those that he writes to me in the 'dead of night,' he says. 'Written with passion so fierce,' he says, 'that he fears what may become of his soul, if he were unable to tell me what he feels.' I know these words and more because he's witten them again and again, rephrased so often for ages, and I've read them over and over, when my days and nights get too long and too lonely to endure my mind alone. "I am yours, no matter whoever says whatever else. I am yours.' He writes me at the end of every letter. I long for it to be true, but I know the truth. He is with her. And I? I am alone. Almost. I am with child. With his child, not the child of the man I do love, but the child of the man I must love. Learn to love I suppose. The man who was the boy-who-lived and is now the-man-who-defeated- the-Dark-Lord. In front of me now, two small black words, on an otherwise empty page, bear the definition of my existence, and remind me of my last traces of sanity:'His Letters.'