familiar and yet not. the way they've drifted ever nearer as been slow and uncertain, in sharp contrast to the way she interacts with his alter ego. still, they're moving ever forward. she's got a candy sweet grin on her face, playful coquette reaching a delicate hand up to run fingers through his dark locks. " ya've got nice hair. "
THERE’S A FAMINE IN HIM FOR HER TOUCH , a longing nesting in his gut : ambrosial and alluring . her presence - a flood of calm , like she’s eating away his panic / the antibiotic for a sickness . ( she’s something angelic … or devilish ) still , tim can’t shake away his wariness . the uncertainty and lack of memory are parasites infecting his very being . WHO IS SHE ? WHAT ARE WE ? the waning sense of self and of the world , he’s decays metaphor ; what is he but a carcass left to rot , alive but at what cost ?
THERE’S LITTLE LEFT OF REMEMBRANCE ON TIM’S PART : he doesn’t know poppy beyond the surface , not really , not like his other self does . perhaps he can’t brush away the buried feelings but he can damn well try to ignore them . what good has dependency ever brought anybody ? with that thought , eyes avoid meeting hers : they’re downcast , hollow , even when peripheral vision catches sight of her hand .
❛ uh thanks . ❜ how can one little act leave in its wake such commotion ? like re - living an old dream , memories that aren’t really his swarm him and they feel stolen . posture slouching forward now , ( and he’d deny the ache , the fatal desire to lean in if it ever came up ) eyes finally lift to meet hers , ❛ is this something … do you and , uh , ya’ know … is this a thing we do ? ❜
↳ @impuritae .
