She longs for something that
lights up like a memory and feels
like a life time, holding onto
it, growing hopeful and brave
from it, she doesn't know
fate is cruel to lovers.
So she waits.
He craves what he knows but
hasn't taken, has only accepted,
he only knows of one, and he
holds dear to its warmth, the
only thing filling the void
within the darkness promising
fire and death.
Steps fall quickly through
the years, and the path that
leads them is broken and mended
time and time again, always
teasing and seducing them into
believing in something complete,
good, forgiving. Not alone.
If she could give and he knew how
to accept, out loud, the need
within wouldn't feel like weakness,
it wouldn't burn a hole in their
chests, it would give sight and hope,
leaving the ghosts of their past behind.
They would only be memories to forget.
He doesn't have a name for it,
but it's there, powerful and relentless,
like her voice reaching out for him.
Only him. And there's only her.
How long will she wait?
She pauses and bites through blood,
swallowing this feeling so familiar
it is already a part of her. She doesn't
need to give a reason. It changes nothing.
She will wait.
Fate is cruel to lovers,
flowers playing with fire,
so with the ones that won't fade.