Oh, and while I'm waxing melancholic about Ten's regeneration...
I don't think I ever actually posted this here. Sorry for the maudlin poetry, but it's that time of year, innit?
Hang On For Grim Life Written for Challenge 59 back in November at then_theres_us, Narrative poetry. Tenth Doctor/Rose, PG13
Dying takes a long time, but it's
not long enough. Between the pain of impact, the
singing, high sweet sting of irradiated sweat in the cuts on his
face - his face, but
not for long - and
the numbness that means it's almost here.
Will it hurt? &
Will he remember
why it was so important, this last frigid detour, and the
strands of lights and pink and yellow against pure white
Her smile &
his footprints in
real, proper snow?
Dying takes a long time
when you've lived too long, he supposes
and he could say something poetic about that, about destiny or fortune or the nature of
love, how
She's carving herself into the final memories of an impossible man
who imprinted upon her from
“Barcelona.”
He could seduce her, timelines be damned
Take her upstairs then take her, in her mum's flat: 'death' in the Elizabethan sense of the word
(and he's sorry, Bess, that it was always her he thought of: those lips and that
blonde hair and not your ginger locks, sliding through his fingers).
But that's her future and it's
his past and
here in the present it hurts to breathe.
It hurts to look at her.
Hurts more to look away.
He only wishes he could die a little longer,
sink his fingernails into the snow and hang on for grim
life.
Dying takes a long time
Long enough for a game of snakes and ladders
a round of banana daquiris
a basket of chips.
For one moment he thinks he'll say it all, tell her:
that she will love him, and it will hurt like
freezing death, but
Don't stop, don't dare stop, because she'll save him, over and over again
even now when she
can't.
But his tongue is heavy and tastes of
copper.
His vision blurs.
Dying takes a very long time
Long enough to love
to rage
and to forgive himself, just a little, the life with her he relinquished.
The man who loved Rose Tyler changes, energy pouring from his eyes like
tears
and a new man goes walking off, while
Somewhere else, far away, another man born of war and grief shrugs on his leather jacket, tilts his ship toward
the blue marble of Earth.
And here, right now, a shopgirl drifts off to sleep, and dreams
and waits patiently for her great year to
begin.
Hang On For Grim Life Written for Challenge 59 back in November at then_theres_us, Narrative poetry. Tenth Doctor/Rose, PG13
Dying takes a long time, but it's
not long enough. Between the pain of impact, the
singing, high sweet sting of irradiated sweat in the cuts on his
face - his face, but
not for long - and
the numbness that means it's almost here.
Will it hurt? &
Will he remember
why it was so important, this last frigid detour, and the
strands of lights and pink and yellow against pure white
Her smile &
his footprints in
real, proper snow?
Dying takes a long time
when you've lived too long, he supposes
and he could say something poetic about that, about destiny or fortune or the nature of
love, how
She's carving herself into the final memories of an impossible man
who imprinted upon her from
“Barcelona.”
He could seduce her, timelines be damned
Take her upstairs then take her, in her mum's flat: 'death' in the Elizabethan sense of the word
(and he's sorry, Bess, that it was always her he thought of: those lips and that
blonde hair and not your ginger locks, sliding through his fingers).
But that's her future and it's
his past and
here in the present it hurts to breathe.
It hurts to look at her.
Hurts more to look away.
He only wishes he could die a little longer,
sink his fingernails into the snow and hang on for grim
life.
Dying takes a long time
Long enough for a game of snakes and ladders
a round of banana daquiris
a basket of chips.
For one moment he thinks he'll say it all, tell her:
that she will love him, and it will hurt like
freezing death, but
Don't stop, don't dare stop, because she'll save him, over and over again
even now when she
can't.
But his tongue is heavy and tastes of
copper.
His vision blurs.
Dying takes a very long time
Long enough to love
to rage
and to forgive himself, just a little, the life with her he relinquished.
The man who loved Rose Tyler changes, energy pouring from his eyes like
tears
and a new man goes walking off, while
Somewhere else, far away, another man born of war and grief shrugs on his leather jacket, tilts his ship toward
the blue marble of Earth.
And here, right now, a shopgirl drifts off to sleep, and dreams
and waits patiently for her great year to
begin.