“ I don’t know you, you’re right. “
A perennial taciturnity befalls, and he is a stone, resilient and enduring amidst the intrinsic ataxia; to what end could this unveil him? Enunciation hadn’t ascertained much, but it was enough to satisfy as those resplendent stormy grays tore him apart – he coveted nothing, drew alleviation from nothing, bore nothing. Perceptively, it bred no stupefaction to him that her foresight might unearth it, leaving discomposure in its wake. It wasn’t his place, he knew. Forewarning had never looked good on him, bearing it to place before the flaxen haired crown of a likeness to the very sun that bestowed upon them the delectation of a paramount warmth and unparalleled light. He’d spoken out of turn, but still her ethereal grace branded him – gratitude bore its own ascent now as he returned to her wrist, aversion of his russet gaze following as guise remains unaffected. Clutching her wrist gently, he soothes the cuts in her palm with the gauze and veiling the flesh with the bandage firmly, but not tightly enough to cause discomfort. The entirety of her vocalization lingers as skilled digits continue working over the rest of her bloodied wounds, tending to spilled sanguine in the harrowingly clinical method he’d been taught, reverting within himself until the sudden brush of contact transfixes.
The reticence parting their souls had marked him, mesmeric cataclysm his divine paradox, his obscurity. Say what you mean, coward. The voice bellows, gnawing at unfathomably horrendous depths, the crevices of a perturbed mind roaring to life cognate to his own torments – a mark that bore no time, permanence. Her gaze scorches in its entirety, leaving him undone as she pries him apart beneath the inescapable stare. In turn, dismissal of the prospect – a coalescence of precedingly macabre bindings that encumber and bind in their awakening, asphyxiating his verity in a few heartbeats. How beautifully macabre, that vacancy would whet his appetite, trading one cruel lash for another.
“ I would have seen it, in your eyes. “ Visualization of the aberration might have been dauntingly apparent, but she doesn’t move to break the silence and he doesn’t clarify. Better off unsaid. He’s learned too much from speaking out of turn.
You don’t know anyone, really.
And they’ve never known you.
the quiet sits around them like a snow-covered field, out on springtime green farmhouse land where there is a house and there is a girl and she babbles to the air so that silence is never complete. never whole. where she asks her own mother to sing songs so that the missing syllables that have gone away will never have opportunity to creep up behind her and smother her into an unforgiving, noiseless, infinitely inescapable void. why lana hates the quiet so much, she has never quite reasoned with. too much pause for things left unsaid, like she once dreaded, but also a deceptively soft space to shrink into ghosts and know them as intimately as a sterilised piece of gauze cast around your palm. in this particular moment, she plays back her retort and swallows it ; tastes the edges with a hesitation that is ripe with doubt. wonders if what she said sounded too much like you shouldn’t know me. wonders if, as usual, her voice has been too loud and large for a small and placated room.
then he speaks. he has a voice reminiscent of what exposed sun feels like on stone pavements. something summer, something soothing. the endless gush of noise like a soda can emptied into a paper cup. her eyes cant up and study him ; attempt to surmise what he means by such a peculiarly eloquent confession. questions like, why my eyes? why do they matter? and just as easily, she is urged to dismissal -- to emptily laugh potential into the now vacant soda can of what-if’s. what-could-be’s.
lana strikes a middle ground. she has a thousand yard stare that can be remarkably focused.
“ are you one of those eyes don’t lie types? ” her lips curl into a smile, their expression hard to summarise. “ i knew someone. with very honest eyes, the kind that make you think ‘ good man ’ ; maybe even a kind one. he thought i was irredeemably awful. that’s what he saw when he looked into me. either his eyes lied -- or mine did. ”
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