EXT. THE CLEAN GUTTERED END OF A STAIRWAY, SHYING FROM THE GLITTERY STREETS OF NIGHT CITY-LIGHT. SHE KEEPS HIS GAZE, IN THIS DYAD BEYOND ORIGIN. SIMPLE SILHOUETTES FOR NOW, ORDINARY IN THEIR NEED TO BLUR, MINUTES EARLY FOR THEIR CHAUFFEUR. CLOSED STARTER FOR LAVINIA DE VERA NISHIGUCHI.
his veins are silent, here, by her side. the tomb won’t listen for echoes of his need to hurt. of dead skin mottling itself pink, as it remembers blood. her skin shouldn’t remember; not where he can see. that wrinkle of pain between her brows. a bother to him, in a way he won’t admit. and so, @avecaisar will not hurt. mired by this promise uttered long ago. atop a bleached hill, under an open-armed tree. vast in its leaf-bare branches, reaching for a hand it will not find. the sun watched, instead, as the earth upended itself. you were stuck to the tree’s moss, to the gaze latched on you. ( even when beckoned, you would never move. ) you needed to breathe water. this makes them humid, breathing old air that circulates like blood. the warmth of yourself, between you and me. translated through time until words no longer suffice. they don’t need to exist, when enfleshed in a hand that fits into another. again, there you are. again, here i am. again, the assent precedes him. in the wait, jack twirls a strand of her hair into knots. his other hand offered into the air, for her to see his dry wrists. his blue veins. ‘ are you looking for me to juggle you? ’ a raised brow, teasing a smile onto his lips. any distraction would work. how unlike you to resist the bitten taste of your own hand. he won’t recognise how they wait on a dirtied path. how he brought them out early, and extending her time standing amidst new york crowds. ‘ i have many talents ( … ) giving you a standing foot massage is not one of them. ’
