Em (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _aeneas_) wrote,@ 2003-12-19 08:17:00 |
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There is no declaration, just the rhythm of his breathing. No salt tears, but no less sorrow for all that. It's all there, inside him, on the side that tells him he should speak. But it's small, enclosed and overpowered by the habit that has become instinct: to conceal, to envelop, to never let go of the present and of the consequences. The voice inside that used to watch and keep the commentary has become the judge and the general. he doesn't now know another way to be.
First love and last love, so perfectly juxtaposed. He knows she will be the last. His time for love has almost run out. She has taken what he feels can only be the last space in his heart. He swallowed her heart whole, unknowing, and perhaps that was the making of it all.
First love and last love, so perfectly juxtaposed. He knows she will be the last. His time for love has almost run out. She has taken what he feels can only be the last space in his heart. He swallowed her heart whole, unknowing, and perhaps that was the making of it all.
