even snow white gets the blues
Feb. 9th, 2005 10:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
artyartieAnother dream rumination - honestly, I could make a journal just for these.
My skin is made of alabaster, thin as glass and just as fragile. I half expect my wrist, cradled in your hand, to shatter into a thousand shards, to draw droplets of red blood that would be purple on the plush blue sofa beneath us. I'm clad as in waking, dark blue sweats pushed up past the elbow, feet bare and brushing against your thigh. These strange, pale limbs rest against my bent knees, and the touch of your fingers is lighter than a feather, faint as a breath. They trace up to the crook of my elbow, over white flesh, over a tracework of veins dark as lapis lazuli.
The distance between us in only broached by fingers and toes, and there is a sad solace in the touch, the most comfort I ask for. I can't see my face, but I can imagine the look is the same; a wistful smile and eyes that reveal and hide all things, especially their sorrow. I can't hear your voice, can't make out the words, obscured by a diffuse veil of silence. And so if I can't hear you, if I don't now what passes your lips, then perhaps this negates the ending. Perhaps this is only a misfiring of my brain, amid others.
My sister's voice shatters the uneasy peacefulness, and I turn to see her in a chair besides me. "Oh Monica," she says, her brown eyes mirrors of my own, unhidden by glasses and other guises. "You know he's only lying.."
Something in the alabaster cracks, delicate fissures running across the cool marble surface, and the feel of your hand, the soft weight of the couch beneath me, the look in your eyes I can't decipher, all give way as the blackness of early morning and the chill of my bed greet me.
My skin is made of alabaster, thin as glass and just as fragile. I half expect my wrist, cradled in your hand, to shatter into a thousand shards, to draw droplets of red blood that would be purple on the plush blue sofa beneath us. I'm clad as in waking, dark blue sweats pushed up past the elbow, feet bare and brushing against your thigh. These strange, pale limbs rest against my bent knees, and the touch of your fingers is lighter than a feather, faint as a breath. They trace up to the crook of my elbow, over white flesh, over a tracework of veins dark as lapis lazuli.
The distance between us in only broached by fingers and toes, and there is a sad solace in the touch, the most comfort I ask for. I can't see my face, but I can imagine the look is the same; a wistful smile and eyes that reveal and hide all things, especially their sorrow. I can't hear your voice, can't make out the words, obscured by a diffuse veil of silence. And so if I can't hear you, if I don't now what passes your lips, then perhaps this negates the ending. Perhaps this is only a misfiring of my brain, amid others.
My sister's voice shatters the uneasy peacefulness, and I turn to see her in a chair besides me. "Oh Monica," she says, her brown eyes mirrors of my own, unhidden by glasses and other guises. "You know he's only lying.."
Something in the alabaster cracks, delicate fissures running across the cool marble surface, and the feel of your hand, the soft weight of the couch beneath me, the look in your eyes I can't decipher, all give way as the blackness of early morning and the chill of my bed greet me.
