relieve all my adolescent dreams
Un mois et dix jours.
Not long, but long enough, longer than it should’ve been, longer than he wanted it to be.
Artful hands, thief’s hands held a small gold ring, twisted and braided, simple and fine at the same time in them, rolling it back and forth between them.
Un mois et dix jours.
Perhaps, it would be better if he just threw the ring into the ocean, tossed it away, along with all the hope he held that one day he’d get back to her, get back to Marsali and that maybe, just maybe she’d take him despite the fact that every thing said non non non.
"Ama me fideliter. Fidem meam noto? De corde totaliter et ex mente tota, sum presentialiter absens in remota,” he recited, the Latin poem rolling off his tongue like a prayer.
She did love him, this he knew, but would that be enough, really, when it came to facing her mother and everything. Maybe it’d be better if they both just forgot. He had always been a very good mover, very good at getting away most unscathed.
Un mois et dix jours.
Carefully, he held the ring up to his eye, gazing through the hole, almost as if by staring through it he could see what he was missing, find what it belonged to. Alas, all that he could see was ocean, sand and sky, and despite how nice that was, how much he enjoyed them, they weren’t what he really wanted. Not really.
He scrunched up his face. This was not productive thinking, not at all. If he had stumbled upon himself, he would laugh, point and shake his head, and tell him off.
There was just an awful lot of weight in that tiny thing.
[transl. Lat: "Love me faithfully. See how I am faithful, with all my heart, and all my soul, I am with you, though I am far away."
The hookhanded Frenchman is not really emo, I promise, so come bother him on the beach and he’ll be friendly and charming as always. Promise.]
Not long, but long enough, longer than it should’ve been, longer than he wanted it to be.
Artful hands, thief’s hands held a small gold ring, twisted and braided, simple and fine at the same time in them, rolling it back and forth between them.
Un mois et dix jours.
Perhaps, it would be better if he just threw the ring into the ocean, tossed it away, along with all the hope he held that one day he’d get back to her, get back to Marsali and that maybe, just maybe she’d take him despite the fact that every thing said non non non.
"Ama me fideliter. Fidem meam noto? De corde totaliter et ex mente tota, sum presentialiter absens in remota,” he recited, the Latin poem rolling off his tongue like a prayer.
She did love him, this he knew, but would that be enough, really, when it came to facing her mother and everything. Maybe it’d be better if they both just forgot. He had always been a very good mover, very good at getting away most unscathed.
Un mois et dix jours.
Carefully, he held the ring up to his eye, gazing through the hole, almost as if by staring through it he could see what he was missing, find what it belonged to. Alas, all that he could see was ocean, sand and sky, and despite how nice that was, how much he enjoyed them, they weren’t what he really wanted. Not really.
He scrunched up his face. This was not productive thinking, not at all. If he had stumbled upon himself, he would laugh, point and shake his head, and tell him off.
There was just an awful lot of weight in that tiny thing.
[transl. Lat: "Love me faithfully. See how I am faithful, with all my heart, and all my soul, I am with you, though I am far away."
The hookhanded Frenchman is not really emo, I promise, so come bother him on the beach and he’ll be friendly and charming as always. Promise.]