[i'm sorry, this has no capital letters and may not be what you're looking for. :/] --
"you are," he says, "so beautiful." the colour of his eyes is deep and bright and infinite, so bright it almost hurts to look at.
you are dripping, still. there is salt crusted on the roof of your tongue, stuck in the back of your nose. every time you suck in air you feel like choking. you close your eyes to shield them from the intensity of his gaze, see the red blood dripping across the inside of your eyelid.
his hand on your wrist is warm, is too warm. you are used to the saltwater, you are used to the cold. it feels like you're burning where he's made contact, it feels like you are on fire.
you almost want to go back into the sea, to be free of it. but the arena is a helicopter away, impassable, and your legs are still shaky so that dry land feels like a blessing.
you open your eyes so they will be clean, and meet his gaze. "you look like the sea," you tell him.
--
you are aware that you are not -- all together -- functional. they talk to you as though you are a small child, but you aren't; you're just tired and scared, all the time.
he is in love with all your broken places, all the ways in which you do not make a whole. he likes to sit with you and tell you stories; he likes to braid your hair and tell you that you are safe, now.
there is something about him that grounds you, that centres you; when you are with him you feel less like you are about to wash away with the tide. this does not stop you wondering why he does it, though.
he tells you it is love.
you do not want to tell him you don't understand that concept anymore.
--
he kisses you and you bite his lip open kissing back, and all of a sudden you know. it hits you like a tsunami, like a tidal wave; you tell yourself that you are not driftwood, that you are anchored. (but this is a lie; you are anchored in him.)
you say, "you are in love with the games." your voice gets pitchy, gets high, gets scared; you force yourself not to look away.
his fingertips are under your chin, tilting your face up. "oh, annie," he says, soft, sweet. "i'm so sorry."
no subject
--
"you are," he says, "so beautiful." the colour of his eyes is deep and bright and infinite, so bright it almost hurts to look at.
you are dripping, still. there is salt crusted on the roof of your tongue, stuck in the back of your nose. every time you suck in air you feel like choking. you close your eyes to shield them from the intensity of his gaze, see the red blood dripping across the inside of your eyelid.
his hand on your wrist is warm, is too warm. you are used to the saltwater, you are used to the cold. it feels like you're burning where he's made contact, it feels like you are on fire.
you almost want to go back into the sea, to be free of it. but the arena is a helicopter away, impassable, and your legs are still shaky so that dry land feels like a blessing.
you open your eyes so they will be clean, and meet his gaze. "you look like the sea," you tell him.
--
you are aware that you are not -- all together -- functional. they talk to you as though you are a small child, but you aren't; you're just tired and scared, all the time.
he is in love with all your broken places, all the ways in which you do not make a whole. he likes to sit with you and tell you stories; he likes to braid your hair and tell you that you are safe, now.
there is something about him that grounds you, that centres you; when you are with him you feel less like you are about to wash away with the tide. this does not stop you wondering why he does it, though.
he tells you it is love.
you do not want to tell him you don't understand that concept anymore.
--
he kisses you and you bite his lip open kissing back, and all of a sudden you know. it hits you like a tsunami, like a tidal wave; you tell yourself that you are not driftwood, that you are anchored. (but this is a lie; you are anchored in him.)
you say, "you are in love with the games." your voice gets pitchy, gets high, gets scared; you force yourself not to look away.
his fingertips are under your chin, tilting your face up. "oh, annie," he says, soft, sweet. "i'm so sorry."
you don't know who he's sorry for.