Loathe the way they light candles in Rome
But love the sweet air of the votives
But love the sweet air of the votives
"I do," Koa agrees with a grimace, thinking of the many silver scars that Pipsqueak has left on him over the years. Some are even visible now, pale against his brushed bronze bicep. They tell a story of trust and time.
They're easier to look at than the ones on his heart.
They're so close now, close enough to breathe as one, her exhalations sending sparks skidding across his cheek. She's shining and quicksilver, intoxicating and dangerous, each of his senses filled with her - the heat in her eyes, the sound of her voice, the sensation of her breath, the smell of her perfume. Only taste is unaccounted for, an absence that would take so little to correct. She'd said 'yes' then; she is saying 'yes' now.
But is it enough to overcome the 'no's' that happened in between?
Koa grips the bench with one hand; the other splays across the table, tense, white-knuckled with the enormous self-control it takes to keep from reaching for her. Frustrated, yearning, and still afraid, he leans in until their foreheads are touching, exhaling a shuddering breath as his nose brushes feather-light on hers. Eyelids flutter shut; a low, pained groan chuckle vibrating in his chest.
"Soh," Koa whispers, pleads, hoarse and hurried and desperate and amused. "I think maybe I fucked up when I said we could be friends."
They're easier to look at than the ones on his heart.
They're so close now, close enough to breathe as one, her exhalations sending sparks skidding across his cheek. She's shining and quicksilver, intoxicating and dangerous, each of his senses filled with her - the heat in her eyes, the sound of her voice, the sensation of her breath, the smell of her perfume. Only taste is unaccounted for, an absence that would take so little to correct. She'd said 'yes' then; she is saying 'yes' now.
But is it enough to overcome the 'no's' that happened in between?
Koa grips the bench with one hand; the other splays across the table, tense, white-knuckled with the enormous self-control it takes to keep from reaching for her. Frustrated, yearning, and still afraid, he leans in until their foreheads are touching, exhaling a shuddering breath as his nose brushes feather-light on hers. Eyelids flutter shut; a low, pained groan chuckle vibrating in his chest.
"Soh," Koa whispers, pleads, hoarse and hurried and desperate and amused. "I think maybe I fucked up when I said we could be friends."
Koa Carpenter
Hurt and grieve but don't suffer alone
Engage with the pain as a motive
Engage with the pain as a motive
