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Arahim Seasoned Veteran

Joined: 05 Apr 2008 Posts: 434 Location: N.Carolina
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Posted: Tue Nov 02, 2010 7:28 am Post subject: Like Glass Until it Breaks |
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Breath filled him. Left him.
The only move he made, and wholly involuntary.
Forgotten easily, and nearly imperceptible in the muted solitude of his room.
Singular silhouette tacked upon the cut, even stone before him, and caught stillborn in mirrored glass edged in worked bronze.
Firelight made pearls upon his damp skin in the colors of Autumn, stripped as he was of all ceremony or pretense. The air about him clung to his scent, freshly scrubbed and new for these passing, short-lived moments.
His dark eyes hid behind his sodden hair, lank and long.
Droplets dotting the cool floor, pooling at his feet.
Dark eyes, lost in the dark around him, so near to him, watched the man in the glass.
Naked. Quiet.
Breath filled him. Left him. |
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Arahim Seasoned Veteran

Joined: 05 Apr 2008 Posts: 434 Location: N.Carolina
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Posted: Mon Nov 08, 2010 1:58 pm Post subject: |
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From wrist to shoulder, she would trail the tracery of scars decorating his shield arm.
"In all things, a pattern," she would whisper. The whole world diminished away to nothing but them. When even the peaceful trilling of morning birdsong could not broach intrusion upon the calm solitude born of a perfect recognition.
The long gouges of deep pink so sensitive. Smooth and new. Holding him together as surely as she did. Marring memory upon him permanent.
Her fingers would circle his heart where the snaking cuts abruptly ended.
Overlay soft, secret speech that never escaped these walls.
Now, in reflection, he could no longer hear her.
And his scars were just scars. |
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Arahim Seasoned Veteran

Joined: 05 Apr 2008 Posts: 434 Location: N.Carolina
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Posted: Wed Nov 10, 2010 10:54 pm Post subject: |
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The glittering of stars unseen through stormclouds, glitter nonetheless.
"For deg gi jeg alle som jeg," she had whispered, holding the ring up to her eye. Peering through as if to some new truth.
The tight, spidery script laying wounds in the soft metal.
Circular. Without end.
Etched in the dead language of his mother, and her mother before.
And yet, the words his own. His grace put into their making.
Put into her.
A prophecy in any way you read it. Inflection tantamount to meaning.
A future left written in thin, silvery shavings lost.
In the taking away, did he create...and so did she also. |
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