feathers are falling like snow— no, ash— he thinks of his brother. he’s probably waiting, yawning, pacing. gliding back and forth, oozing like something insidious, like something trapped in slow-motion. he’s like that. they both can be. once upon a time he grew tired of it (irony of ironies, that;) so his icy shadow has settled here, instead. he kisses opposites instead of mirrors, for once. the breath that fills his mouth is hot and fast and fiery and impassioned, instead of caked with lethargy, instead of a whisper. the eyes that meet his here are glinting and glittering; (he winks, tonguing over his lower lip; he radiates flame and desire and) you can’t find that among shades, in the shade, at all a will to live (so to speak) crushing over the urge to die (himself, of course) they’re canceling each other out; they’re negating; it’s completing a cycle, instead of just… continuing onward in a line. it’s why they bother. why death conceded to devour love and why passion agreed to caress something rotting, kissing to become a balancing act, and not another cold—another—just a mirror— with snow and ash mingling— it was the need for red, instead of gray, for once. a necessary thing. eros is biting hard enough to bleed, laughing, grinning, a whirlwind. death wants to kill him, a little. supposes love feels the same when it comes to him; supposes sleep probably does, too.
it’s only psychology, brother dear // a.t.
(inspired in part by @deathbyvalentine‘s poem My twin can’t stop dreaming of us)
