𝐭h𝐞 𝟑3𝟑 𝐄v𝐞n𝐭 . . . 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝟏
phantom limbs — what do you miss most about your desired reality when you’re in your current reality ? which physical sensation feels wrong or missing here ? maybe it’s the absence of someone’s hand in yours, or the missing sound of a voice calling your name. what part of your reality’s body do you reach for that isn’t there ?
. . . the symphony lies in the heart of my swollen palm.(vampire dr)
the simplest of things call home for the most grotesque desires. It is during the most sluggish hours of the day that the ache is the most profound, deep and cutting. Waking up entwined with him, as the sky bleeds colors into herself, blue, grey, red... he is always already awake beforehand, staring at me with a peculiar stillness. One only creatures like us could master.
The tea that he would bring me always held an earthly smell to it, always the same, always how i liked it. He never forgot. Taking long hot baths with him, lying on his chest as he held and washed me, until our skin was wrinkly and our hearts content. Sloppy kisses.
Him telling me stories from centuries ago — a poet from a town forgotten that went mad, a comet he had seen 4 centuries ago that shone just as brightly as my eyes, a cathedral that only rung it's bell once, a witch he tricked in some woods.
Him tying my corset lace, his hands always cold deft and practiced, he would whisper something into the curve of my neck, to make me laugh or gasp or slap his arm away. I always melted. Keeping his chin on my shoulder, hands on my waist, staring silently into my eyes through the mirror.
Eating together. We sat at the table, feeding. Even though we wanted to simply devour one another. I eat small things: roasted pears with honey, bitter greens, smoked cheeses. He drank deep, usually from a silver chalice older than some cities. He feeds me a grape, a cherry, slices of apples. He would watch my mouth, my lips, the movement, memorizing them for some divine mysterious purpose.
Dancing. At balls, we'd always dance, always rest our foreheads together when the rythm gets tiring. We'd let out lips meet in an saccharine reunion. I'd tell him i am tired, he would tell me he was not, he never would be.
We'd take long walks near a river, the cold water reminding us of our origins. Our hands held in a silent promise. 'i hope you know you changed my life.' he'd tell me.......... 'i hope you know you saved mine'. . .my answer
In our holy bed chambers, his sharp fangs would slide across my thigh, i'd sigh. He would undo my corset reverently, teasingly, slowly, he's worship me. He'd say something in latin or a long discarded language, i'd never ask him what he said, i did not need to know, it was a prayer, i was the altar. In that room, there were rituals older than memory. The brushing of my hair by candlelight. The way he always wrapped our legs together when we lay down, as a reminder that our eternities were twined. The single candle he never let burn down, always extinguished at the moment just before sleep.
God, I miss fighting with him. Our arguments are operas, poetry. Him with his 700 years of stubbornness and wisdom, me with my blood still hot and running. Pride, fear, lust, all would collide. The immortal weight of him pressing against the immediacy of me. Some nights we do not talk, i would stalk down the hallways, he would go back to brooding. But we'd always return, one of us. He'd be waiting, an apology soft on his mouth, or he’d find me curled on a chaise, weeping without knowing why. The anger would melt like wax between us. He’d hold my wrists and kiss the pulse there. sometimes we would make love without speaking, clawing at each other's skin like the argument still resides, cold and gnawing, under our skin. I'd call him my god, he would not reply, letting my truth echo and sit. Other times, we would just lie in silence, forehead to forehead, his thumb brushing the hollow of my throat as if to remind himself I was still his...
I miss travelling through the tapestry of time and history with him, moving weightless across centuries. watching empires collapse, castles run over, lovers die and churches burnt. We stood under every sky, the sulfur haze of london, the pale dawn over florence, the red storms over mongol camps. We held our hands together like a compass, unyielding and guiding, always predicting history before it occurred. . .
it is in the most rapid hours of the day that the pain becomes real, it is in the every second of every minute that him and i waltz through my memories and bleed through my dreams.
@bridalribbon, lottie congrats on 333, i love you. mwah.
