Em (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _aeneas_) wrote,@ 2003-12-19 08:21:00 |
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They say: let not those who are impure in heart embrace the Phoenix, for she burns. That was how he saw her at times, on that impossible pedestal, wreathed in fire. She would burn all this up in time, and be renewed. She was, after all, so young. First love and last love, perfectly juxtaposed. He saw the white in his hair reflected in her pale skin, and the tan of his own skin in her red hair.
He knows she will be the last for him. His time for love has almost run out; she has taken what he feels can only be the last space in his heart. He, unknowing, has swallowed her heart whole, thereby, perhaps, gaining time that is not his and, perhaps, that was the making of it all.
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September, and the afternoon is fading into the dying sun, taking the green smell of the leaves with it. The light seems melancholy and heavy across the backs of the few who still remain, occupying the off-white steps which lead up to the entrance, their relaxed and thoughtless sprawling adding somehow to the delapidated majesty of the place.
He can see them from his office window, just a few metres away. Thier unconscious beauty reaches him today and he smiles from above his paperwork. She has been making him think about the children he has in loco parentis, forcing him out of his jaded attitudes of thought, if only to understand how it is that she can have such power over him.
She hasn't knocked today, as he half expected her too. His body has been tensed since three-thirty waiting for it. Her visits have been less frequent recently. He misses her.
Only one contact today, one meeting of their eyes. She had caught him in the corridor at lunch, their casual glances locking together, making him hot and confused, sweat gathering under clothes suddenly heavy as lead, he couldn't take his eyes off her. She dropped her gaze first.
He knows she will be the last for him. His time for love has almost run out; she has taken what he feels can only be the last space in his heart. He, unknowing, has swallowed her heart whole, thereby, perhaps, gaining time that is not his and, perhaps, that was the making of it all.
----------------------------------
September, and the afternoon is fading into the dying sun, taking the green smell of the leaves with it. The light seems melancholy and heavy across the backs of the few who still remain, occupying the off-white steps which lead up to the entrance, their relaxed and thoughtless sprawling adding somehow to the delapidated majesty of the place.
He can see them from his office window, just a few metres away. Thier unconscious beauty reaches him today and he smiles from above his paperwork. She has been making him think about the children he has in loco parentis, forcing him out of his jaded attitudes of thought, if only to understand how it is that she can have such power over him.
She hasn't knocked today, as he half expected her too. His body has been tensed since three-thirty waiting for it. Her visits have been less frequent recently. He misses her.
Only one contact today, one meeting of their eyes. She had caught him in the corridor at lunch, their casual glances locking together, making him hot and confused, sweat gathering under clothes suddenly heavy as lead, he couldn't take his eyes off her. She dropped her gaze first.
