(no subject)
[N'sync] [JC/Lance] [G]
improved with kittykatz
love in slow motion, crumbs alive, never after, shattered
He lives for himself. You live to be seen.
He laughs, the sound tangible, saccharine and pure, buttering your lips and leaving your fingers sticky. You lie, and the words are glassy and sharp, like a knife, as you slice through everything good in the world, and there's a heavy ache deep inside you, where your heart used to be.
He wants the simple pleasures in life. You want more than you can ever have.
He dreams. You do.
He talks in circles, jerks up at night and mumbles about, "crumbs alive... cookie jars." You're always about practicality, and you hate beating about the bush.
He's an artist. You're a businessman.
He's soft, and he sparkles when he sings, like it's the only thing he knows how to do. You're rough around the edges, molded and shaped by years in a cold, calculative world, and you can only taste the same, imparted, cold calculativeness in your melody as the notes leave your lips.
He needs, because he gives so much. You need, because you don't know how.
He loves in slow motion. You love like you don't remember what it's like to breathe.
He lets go, and smiles the pain away, and doesn't let anything break him. You fight, and to the world, you're stronger for it, but you know you're far more brittle than he'll ever be, if anyone looks close enough.
But he's been fighting for you, for both of you, and you know when he's given up. You can see it in his eyes, the bone-weariness he never shows anyone but you. And when he says, "it's over," very very softly, you turn and walk away. Because you can fight the rest of the world, but you can't fight this. You never learnt how.
And that's all it is, now. All it's ever been. A tragic, shattered dream of never after.
-fin-
improved with kittykatz
love in slow motion, crumbs alive, never after, shattered
He lives for himself. You live to be seen.
He laughs, the sound tangible, saccharine and pure, buttering your lips and leaving your fingers sticky. You lie, and the words are glassy and sharp, like a knife, as you slice through everything good in the world, and there's a heavy ache deep inside you, where your heart used to be.
He wants the simple pleasures in life. You want more than you can ever have.
He dreams. You do.
He talks in circles, jerks up at night and mumbles about, "crumbs alive... cookie jars." You're always about practicality, and you hate beating about the bush.
He's an artist. You're a businessman.
He's soft, and he sparkles when he sings, like it's the only thing he knows how to do. You're rough around the edges, molded and shaped by years in a cold, calculative world, and you can only taste the same, imparted, cold calculativeness in your melody as the notes leave your lips.
He needs, because he gives so much. You need, because you don't know how.
He loves in slow motion. You love like you don't remember what it's like to breathe.
He lets go, and smiles the pain away, and doesn't let anything break him. You fight, and to the world, you're stronger for it, but you know you're far more brittle than he'll ever be, if anyone looks close enough.
But he's been fighting for you, for both of you, and you know when he's given up. You can see it in his eyes, the bone-weariness he never shows anyone but you. And when he says, "it's over," very very softly, you turn and walk away. Because you can fight the rest of the world, but you can't fight this. You never learnt how.
And that's all it is, now. All it's ever been. A tragic, shattered dream of never after.
-fin-