Easy Tonight
So, my computer still isn't working. I know you may wondering how I am making this post. I'm using my friends computer.
When the winter came, he seemed more lenient. He seemed quiet. Expectant. A finger on the foggy window traced a line and then another. The mark of a dead language: wolf, monster, and beast.
Fenrir.
Canines and incisors cold on flesh when he teased her carelessly in the winter; his breath warm on skin from whisky and vodka. Hers was chilled with cosmopolitans and laughter as they stomped home in the snow. It crunched beneath their feet as they moved and he could hear an orchestra of the long winter as they moved. The snow melted on her hair and her breath crystallized before him.
Beauty.
And all he could think was her mouth open in laughter. All he could think was her dark hair wet from snow. All he could think was her nose red from cold. And all he could think was a mitten in his rough hand. Snowfall and leaning forward. Eyes closed. Leaning, moving forward, desperately.
And all he could think was perfection.
Valhalla,
Mead,
Ragnarok.
A sword age.
A wolf age.
A strange age with Emily in the cold winter of the end of the world as he presses his body to hers and her fingers in her mittens take his hand carefully but clumsily. Hazy from the drink of mortals. If mortal.
And her lips move and form against his a smile that makes his heart (or another’s) flutter in his (or another’s) chest. Then, quietly together they continue. This strange age continues as they walk their way back to their home. Her hand slips from his and he thinks ‘Oh, gods.’
And it’s not easy tonight.
When the winter came, he seemed more lenient. He seemed quiet. Expectant. A finger on the foggy window traced a line and then another. The mark of a dead language: wolf, monster, and beast.
Fenrir.
Canines and incisors cold on flesh when he teased her carelessly in the winter; his breath warm on skin from whisky and vodka. Hers was chilled with cosmopolitans and laughter as they stomped home in the snow. It crunched beneath their feet as they moved and he could hear an orchestra of the long winter as they moved. The snow melted on her hair and her breath crystallized before him.
Beauty.
And all he could think was her mouth open in laughter. All he could think was her dark hair wet from snow. All he could think was her nose red from cold. And all he could think was a mitten in his rough hand. Snowfall and leaning forward. Eyes closed. Leaning, moving forward, desperately.
And all he could think was perfection.
Valhalla,
Mead,
Ragnarok.
A sword age.
A wolf age.
A strange age with Emily in the cold winter of the end of the world as he presses his body to hers and her fingers in her mittens take his hand carefully but clumsily. Hazy from the drink of mortals. If mortal.
And her lips move and form against his a smile that makes his heart (or another’s) flutter in his (or another’s) chest. Then, quietly together they continue. This strange age continues as they walk their way back to their home. Her hand slips from his and he thinks ‘Oh, gods.’
And it’s not easy tonight.