“ i’m not great at this kind of thing. ”
the sweetest years won’t tarry * upon the backs of eyelids squeezed tight against their light, because memories dim when you prod at the wound of them as you would a sore in the mouth, when you look at them only to punish yourself. pain replacing love. a hand hovering between sight and the sun. still, it’s hard to hold anything dear here [ untainted by time ] & so the past fades to black & the future stretches on, farther & wider than ever imagined. her voice crosses the short distance between them after a long bout of silence. they usually prefer quiet commiseration. « the boredom or the…? » a nod to her arm tucked protectively against her side.
yelena’s eyes don’t focus enough to meet his gaze. she looks like she’s struggling to breathe around the knife-tip of pain dug between muscle & bone [ definitely a broken rib ] but he makes no move to comfort her. soft touch has become unto marketable commodity or a ruinous reminder of liberty [ never offered, hardly accepted ] so he keeps his distance. he doubts she’s referencing rough treatment, anyway. « for me it’s the waiting. » she won’t come « shield, durst, whoever comes after... they’ll die, blur together, & i’ll still be here waiting. » his head hits the cold wall of the cell & he sends his gaze upward leaving her to her silence with a false twist of his mouth, « i’ll tell you this for free: you suck at opening up. »
