उदार * lilith sahl.

          ‘ i am bishop enrico maxwell , a pleasure to meet you . ‘

     “ enrico maxwell.”

     she says the name as if testing it. sounding overly exotic in her light indian lilt -- then she smiles. dazzling, only for a moment.

     oh? silver hair – like abel. she’s… never before met another man with similar hair. and, also a priest? 

     “ lilith, & yourself?” 

          ‘ i am bishop enrico maxwell , a pleasure to meet you . ‘

     oh? silver hair -- like abel. she’s... never before met another man with similar hair. and, also a priest? 

The poor man jolts on the spot, thoroughly surprised by the sudden touch from behind… However, the shock in his features quickly fades as he turns, a gentle smile taking its place.

     sweet thing -- reddened lips spread into a smile & she reaches, gentle hand dragging fingers through his silken ponytail.

He’d hardly call this LIVING.

Nevertheless, Abel reciprocates the greeting (if it can even be called that) in kind. He owes her a response – owes her far more than he’d care to admit. Part of him wonders why she even bothers to grace FILTH like him with an acknowledgement at all, but he doesn’t question. He’s not what he used to be, pathetically passive in place of defiance that once seemed so endless.

     they reach a stalemate.

     lilith laments, every passing moment, for what they could have been. what they could be, if only her tongue wasn’t bleeding, her stomach soured. arteries bled dry, her sky empty. she dies for him, each passing day. each week, each hour.

     the possibilities that dawn upon her, cling. 

     & she’s left bereft. cold. if only she’d allow it. now, she shows that which she feels against her veins, iced. he bears the brunt of her change. she’s asked herself if she hates him.

     let me not      to the marriage of true minds      admit impediments.

     no ; she hates herself for loving him.