Write about the relationship between an immortal and a time traveller
The first time you meet her she knows a version of you but you don’t know her. Not yet.
She’s exasperated, all heaving lungs, and you understand because she’s asking you, for once can you just react in a way that’s not subtle or gentle?
And no one has known you such as this, you’re jealous of future you, of the moment in which you jump into the right timeline.
She looks the same. The dam breaks, a heart races, the river floods. You learn of her immortality.
What do you want me to say? I’m in love with you and I can’t because everything I love dies.
Look at me, I’m not, not here, not now. I’m alive and that means you can love me for this second and the next and every other until you can’t anymore.
But not forever. Will I ever see a younger you here again?
I’m always here, I’m everywhere.
My memory loves you; it asks about you all the time.
I’ll turn back time itself.
The sigh is gentle, an exhale that almost comes in a whisper of wind in leaves.
Look at you, the owner of time is running out of it. It’s a voice made of the sound of broken glass, laced with just enough agony it sounds like it could be spoken on a laugh. It’s not a laugh, it’s the noise the sand makes when the sea pulls away.
I’ve never owned it, not like you.
If you don’t own time then why does your heart beat?
And the answer is simple, in a look that surpasses tenderness, eyes that rid the idea of forever, eyes that you’ve known in other lives, eyes that ask, how many times have you died for me?
Your swallow interrupts, voice trailing off as a throat constricts. Instead fingers brush a strand of hair out of open souled eyes, how else would I love you? Again a silent question.
I can show you where it starts, you tell her instead.
The flicker of eye lids is all the indicator of uncertainty needed.
Take me where time can’t get us.
As hands connect, fingers intertwine, an old melody surrounds, take my whole life too.
It doesn’t feel like moving, more like warmth that sets every nerve ending on edge, more like light that tingles gold, fizzes beneath the skin.
The sky is filled with stars despite the sun glowing hot, green and blue and orange, trees, flowers, grass. Nature and the sky, the oldest love story.
There’s a nod at the correction.
The last moment before humanity.
It’s never looked like this.
From a distance a fiery glow burns up in the sky, and it’s destruction and beauty and creation and death all in one. It collides with the earth in a light that shakes the ground, and despite the fallen trees there’s a sense of life in the air.
In every version of a life like this, that’s how time starts and also how it ends.
The raised eyebrow in question isn’t pointed directly as a reply, her eyes are still watching life burn and grow.
And the pointed finger indicates both the horizon and the sun.
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