Mayhaps it was merely a fine attention to detail that it caught her eye--- he might have hoped it was solely this, if only slightly, and he cannot be sure the reason, for it was, as with everything else, much too convoluted and easily misplaced in the intricacy that was him & her, them, this. He wondered if it was something more, and that was intriguing, indeed; that she, in fact, had been looking for something, anything, and in what manner could he have possibly inspired it? That was what irked him as he, unbeknownst to her, had observed her hopelessly picking at the crimson pinprick at the collar of her ( his ) button-down, dragging the pad of her thumb desperately over it as though to scrub out some foul part of him, to remove his own sordid being. That she had never attempted to approach him about it was no surprise; he anticipated that sort of evasiveness, as it was per her tenacious nature to single-handedly unriddle riddles.
It was then, he thinks, borne from that sobering moment, the reticence wrenched itself between them, and she conceded to a certain jeopardy that would have been evident from the first, but he, akin to some pestilent Incubus, kept her satiated on his infectious, honeyed venom. And sometimes, he's almost sure she's ( too ) willingly disposed to the balm of reassurance than to ever resign herself over, entirely, to the truth. A heart parched & fed needles, bled of all your love & light, left STRIPPED, raw; this was the consequence of loving him --- and he stood over her with disimpassioned eyes trained on her sleeping frame so exhausted with the weight of it all, brushed away the tendrils of hair from her face with light fingertips, appreciating the state of her.
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