@cmno asked -- orchid, bolder these days, says nothing as he reaches up. curls long fingers around lock of longer hair. for a moment, it seems as though he wants nothing more than to simply hold it / but all too soon is he tugging, gently, twice. coaxing zenos down so that he may curl free hand around lips to whisper into ear.
ZENOS monotony in shades of flickering grey. quiet subtleties,.. nought but the taste of prey to bring alive a landscape without purpose or cause. the grey of ashes on the tongue, the colourlessness of dust in the eye. what is death if not a justifiable absence of meaning?
the only spark, then, this--
dark skin & bright hair / yes. a black & white - this time, congruent in their depiction of a contrast so stark that the senses fissure. a few times the attempt was made to banish a sensation that breeds simple-mindedness at the cost of all else; in the name of practise. of mastery of the self.
interest has always had to be feigned. the mind plays tricks on itself to survive.
if this indeed be an illusion, ‘tis a splendid one.
languid is the flick of blonde across blue. proximity grates like nothing else, chafes into the senses & widens the cracks to tear deeper. & so there is no reason not to dip, low - into the welcoming gift of insanity’s prelude. a sampling alone, as though orchid knows how to contain the magnitude of his capacity for maddening lesser souls-
( is he lesser..? ) absolutely not.
pink passes along the flatline of his lips. ...but it appears he must prove this. how refreshing; to be able to lose-! to be able to stand abreast of one alike.
blue on the pale of another’s eyes. large, somehow a sweetness to behold. odd. there is pleasure in the littlest parts of this being - could he not teach the world to be a trove?
alas. that is a lost cause.
this, then, his gift: breath & voice in caress to another sense. goose flesh radiates down the jump of his pulse & the curve of his spine. ah. ahhh...
forgot to hear the words.
dededos
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