Vignette 2
Written to complement the last one.
Your name: Krispy
Your story's title: The One Left Behind
Your pairing: Lucianus and Soleil
Your theme: 15 Vignettes
Previous entries: LJ Memories
Your story's website/journal: Stories of Questionable Origin
Your entry's rating: Nothing scandalous about writing letters, right?
Letters
She remembered the first time he spoke her name, delicate as a secret between lovers. It was as if he had known then what they would become. Unsurprising. He had always spoken in metaphor or smiled his smile, the one that meant everything and nothing.
*
Hello love.
Curling lines-black ivy across the page.
There was a raven perched on the branch outside my window, when I awoke into a dream-shrouded world. I thought of you. And that annoying bird of yours.
She smiled and imagined he had too, an afterthought to an afterthought.
It sat there, a creature shaped from night. When it flew away, there were words on the page, this letter. Pointless.
I hate the sentimental.
A sigh (she was sure he would have sighed after a statement like that). He hated wasting time too. She saw the blue of his eyes deepening, endless as the sky as he debated over crumbling the page with his slender hands.
Moonlight on snow. That reminds me of you.
She folded it, put it away. He hated wasting words too.
*
Their love was bittersweet like lost summers and 'forever', and she would change nothing about it. To live and die so sweetly-the way the thought of him tore her apart and gently, so gently like whispers on bare, exposed skin, or fingers tracing the curve of her spine, mended her back together again. Like how a tragedy was infinitely more evocative than a happy ending, entrenching itself within the heart and soul, lingering in the mind, on the lips, the tip of the tongue, that's how she loved him.
*
Hello love.
Simple. They didn’t believe in flowery endearments.
People are disgustingly dull. I had forgotten how much. Poetry is a lost art.
She followed in her mind the movement of his hand as he wrote, as he brushed the black locks of hair away from his face.
Soleil. An odd name for you, considering what you do. I saw the sun rise today into a winter morning. I think I understand now. Soleil. You.
A tap for the period after the "you." She saw a shadow cross his face, slide over his fine cheek bones before disappearing again. His sadness (at least, she liked to think it was).
The 'l' in your name-that is poetry. A letter that can be tasted, that can be released to the air. Life begins with an 'l,' as does love.
She wanted to reply, to say, as does your name, love. Lucianus Evenstar.
Death has an 'l,' though hidden. Those who know you would understand. I'm sorry for doing this again. Pointless.
Sentimental, and you know how I feel about that.
She placed it into the box with the others. Yes, she knew how he felt about that.
*
He was a star, descended from the brightest in the sky, and all the more beautiful for falling. He had been forsaken by heaven, and so, so she loved him.
Your name: Krispy
Your story's title: The One Left Behind
Your pairing: Lucianus and Soleil
Your theme: 15 Vignettes
Previous entries: LJ Memories
Your story's website/journal: Stories of Questionable Origin
Your entry's rating: Nothing scandalous about writing letters, right?
Letters
She remembered the first time he spoke her name, delicate as a secret between lovers. It was as if he had known then what they would become. Unsurprising. He had always spoken in metaphor or smiled his smile, the one that meant everything and nothing.
*
Hello love.
Curling lines-black ivy across the page.
There was a raven perched on the branch outside my window, when I awoke into a dream-shrouded world. I thought of you. And that annoying bird of yours.
She smiled and imagined he had too, an afterthought to an afterthought.
It sat there, a creature shaped from night. When it flew away, there were words on the page, this letter. Pointless.
I hate the sentimental.
A sigh (she was sure he would have sighed after a statement like that). He hated wasting time too. She saw the blue of his eyes deepening, endless as the sky as he debated over crumbling the page with his slender hands.
Moonlight on snow. That reminds me of you.
She folded it, put it away. He hated wasting words too.
*
Their love was bittersweet like lost summers and 'forever', and she would change nothing about it. To live and die so sweetly-the way the thought of him tore her apart and gently, so gently like whispers on bare, exposed skin, or fingers tracing the curve of her spine, mended her back together again. Like how a tragedy was infinitely more evocative than a happy ending, entrenching itself within the heart and soul, lingering in the mind, on the lips, the tip of the tongue, that's how she loved him.
*
Hello love.
Simple. They didn’t believe in flowery endearments.
People are disgustingly dull. I had forgotten how much. Poetry is a lost art.
She followed in her mind the movement of his hand as he wrote, as he brushed the black locks of hair away from his face.
Soleil. An odd name for you, considering what you do. I saw the sun rise today into a winter morning. I think I understand now. Soleil. You.
A tap for the period after the "you." She saw a shadow cross his face, slide over his fine cheek bones before disappearing again. His sadness (at least, she liked to think it was).
The 'l' in your name-that is poetry. A letter that can be tasted, that can be released to the air. Life begins with an 'l,' as does love.
She wanted to reply, to say, as does your name, love. Lucianus Evenstar.
Death has an 'l,' though hidden. Those who know you would understand. I'm sorry for doing this again. Pointless.
Sentimental, and you know how I feel about that.
She placed it into the box with the others. Yes, she knew how he felt about that.
*
He was a star, descended from the brightest in the sky, and all the more beautiful for falling. He had been forsaken by heaven, and so, so she loved him.