it's like a trick of light. daytime and it's all too harsh, too sharp, too focused. there's too much to look at all at once, too much to hear or say (or hide, because love isn't ineroxable), so you push it all under and it only breaks through when your guard goes down, and that's not often.
nighttime and blue moonlight or the cheap yellow of a streetlamp, a disco ball for the moths, and it's softer. muted.
and so there's this. haven found in the stuttering of her breath, the vision of wisps of hair sticking to the sides of her face like cinderella revealed at the ball, sleeping beauty opening her eyes under a mesh of cobwebs and wiping them away with one sweep of her hand.
it comes down to this: being with her is somehow worse than being without her. (at least when she's not with you you know there will come a time when the sight of her will move a fire in you long forgotten, and you can make a list, recite a litany, and remember.)
and it's this. it's the the shadow of her eyelashes on her cheek and the light through the window. this, the taste of strawberries beneath vodka and cigarettes (and she doesn't really taste like her brother at all). this, this, this, shattering in slow-motion, infinite cracking glass, and you're breathing in every sound, every movement, each flavor curling dark and familiar, the way you are together.
a/n: you guessed it, yet another challenge. the words were haven, fire and love. ("make a list. recite a litany. remember." is from cormac mccarthy's the road – paraphrasing, since i lost my copy of the book. woe.) also, fp fucks with my formatting. it's extrememly annoying.