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31_days2012-07-17 08:28 pm
noir-au-blanc.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2012-07-17 08:28 pm
17 July - Original - Soliloquy.
Title: Soliloquy
Day/Theme: July 17 - "He told me many times, I love you"
Rating: PG
Summary: He answered her every question.
"What are you thinking, what?"
Her heart is like yours.
Ruby red glistening, with the rhythmic pulse under hand, expanding and cracking in time with the steps she takes, all of which is her is like you, all of which that affects her, affects you also.
Her joys are like yours. The smallest things are made beautiful because she deems it so, and her pain -- in her weaknesses you are affected, driven to paranoia, capable of housing a thousand manic butterflies inside your mouth.
She is like you, your anger and your passions.
If you were to close your eyes, she would too. She sees what you see, and feels what you feel, it is this way, because it was planned, there is no other foreseeable course of action.
Burn your tongue -- and she would burn hers, stroke the walls with intent laid to use and she would see the markings left behind in your wake, ghost prints overlaid with broken cobwebs.
You, you are tarnished by your lust and beauty, the pulse of which coexists in her and she smiles, because you have smiled in some lost thought, some broken dream, some bitterness which tinges the edges curling your flesh.
Her thoughts. Her thoughts are hers alone.
You're looking at me with sleepy wonderment in your eyes, and I can’t say a word, my lips dare not proceed to speak, dare not break a spell that’s woven.
All those like you, but not.
All those that were beautiful in their hedonistic behaviours, tawdry willingness.
None of them did I love.
Day/Theme: July 17 - "He told me many times, I love you"
Rating: PG
Summary: He answered her every question.
"What are you thinking, what?"
Her heart is like yours.
Ruby red glistening, with the rhythmic pulse under hand, expanding and cracking in time with the steps she takes, all of which is her is like you, all of which that affects her, affects you also.
Her joys are like yours. The smallest things are made beautiful because she deems it so, and her pain -- in her weaknesses you are affected, driven to paranoia, capable of housing a thousand manic butterflies inside your mouth.
She is like you, your anger and your passions.
If you were to close your eyes, she would too. She sees what you see, and feels what you feel, it is this way, because it was planned, there is no other foreseeable course of action.
Burn your tongue -- and she would burn hers, stroke the walls with intent laid to use and she would see the markings left behind in your wake, ghost prints overlaid with broken cobwebs.
You, you are tarnished by your lust and beauty, the pulse of which coexists in her and she smiles, because you have smiled in some lost thought, some broken dream, some bitterness which tinges the edges curling your flesh.
Her thoughts. Her thoughts are hers alone.
You're looking at me with sleepy wonderment in your eyes, and I can’t say a word, my lips dare not proceed to speak, dare not break a spell that’s woven.
All those like you, but not.
All those that were beautiful in their hedonistic behaviours, tawdry willingness.
None of them did I love.