wintersday (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wintersday) wrote2012-07-04 01:10 pm
wintersday) wrote2012-07-04 01:10 pm
A pistol, stained by blood.
She twirls it, roguish, and slips it through her belt.
She knows someone, she says, who has a need for it, and things like it: love, blood, stories. True ones, anyway. There’s something wistful in her voice when she says that.
You blink, and she’s close. Her hands frame your face. Her breath is warm.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “This is better.”
She kisses you, and the world tilts. It feels like the shadow of dark wings passing from you, like grief reduced to the memory of grief. Solace wells up to replace it.
You’ve lost something. Let it go.
She knows someone, she says, who has a need for it, and things like it: love, blood, stories. True ones, anyway. There’s something wistful in her voice when she says that.
You blink, and she’s close. Her hands frame your face. Her breath is warm.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “This is better.”
She kisses you, and the world tilts. It feels like the shadow of dark wings passing from you, like grief reduced to the memory of grief. Solace wells up to replace it.
You’ve lost something. Let it go.