i will fill the house with you, stack you up in every room
i will fill the house with you, stack you up in every room Doctor/Rose, R
He thinks about the jumper of hers he hates,
How he never took her to Delaney,
And the time she said, teasingly: baby, you’re a star.
(353 words)
A/N: Unbeta-ed. Spoilers up to Series 2 end. Title from Nick Cave. Also, my first try at poetry. Cue nerves.
i will fill the house with you, stack you up in every room
The weight on his tongue,
The feel of cold toes pressed to his shin,
The ring of tea at the bottom of a mug.
He likes the details.
Small things that add up to a life
Of blood and skin and bone and heart.
The curl of a lip and a stray lash on a cheek,
The lone sock in a drawer,
The perfume bottle resting on its side.
It’s important to keep track, keep tally, keep score.
He does this meticulously,
Etches everything into his mind.
The press of her chest to his,
The soft sigh when his fingers curl inside her,
The way she says his name, choked off at the end.
Sometimes he thinks: we are lovers.
Other times: you will grow tired of me.
But, mostly: Rose, Rose, Rose.
The knot of hands between their bodies,
The placing of head on pillow,
The unidentifiable ache clinging to the roof of his mouth.
And memories, he’s learned, are vicious things.
Feral dogs with foaming jowls that snap and tear
At everything.
The phantom limb.
The ghosts on his ship.
The echo of laughter in halls he will never walk down again.
He thinks about the jumper of hers he hates,
How he never took her to Delaney,
And the time she said, teasingly: baby, you’re a star.
The time leftover, stretched and useless.
The untouched bottle of shampoo.
The life narrowed down to objects; just objects.
He thinks about how he never said it. Not once.
Mostly, he believes, because he is a coward.
But he thinks it all the time, pointless now.
The sterile white of a wall and ceiling and floor.
The sound his feet make as he walks away.
The past clinging to his skin with hooks.
(“All love stories,” Rose says. “All great love stories begin the same.”
“Yeah,” the Doctor answers. “How’s that?”
“Once upon a time.”
“March twenty-sixth. Two-thousand five.”
She rolls her eyes, and with her chin to shoulder says “Shut up.”
“About, oh, a quarter after six.”)
This is it, this beach.
He is determined to say it,
Opens his mouth and -
He thinks about the jumper of hers he hates,
How he never took her to Delaney,
And the time she said, teasingly: baby, you’re a star.
(353 words)
A/N: Unbeta-ed. Spoilers up to Series 2 end. Title from Nick Cave. Also, my first try at poetry. Cue nerves.
i will fill the house with you, stack you up in every room
The weight on his tongue,
The feel of cold toes pressed to his shin,
The ring of tea at the bottom of a mug.
He likes the details.
Small things that add up to a life
Of blood and skin and bone and heart.
The curl of a lip and a stray lash on a cheek,
The lone sock in a drawer,
The perfume bottle resting on its side.
It’s important to keep track, keep tally, keep score.
He does this meticulously,
Etches everything into his mind.
The press of her chest to his,
The soft sigh when his fingers curl inside her,
The way she says his name, choked off at the end.
Sometimes he thinks: we are lovers.
Other times: you will grow tired of me.
But, mostly: Rose, Rose, Rose.
The knot of hands between their bodies,
The placing of head on pillow,
The unidentifiable ache clinging to the roof of his mouth.
And memories, he’s learned, are vicious things.
Feral dogs with foaming jowls that snap and tear
At everything.
The phantom limb.
The ghosts on his ship.
The echo of laughter in halls he will never walk down again.
He thinks about the jumper of hers he hates,
How he never took her to Delaney,
And the time she said, teasingly: baby, you’re a star.
The time leftover, stretched and useless.
The untouched bottle of shampoo.
The life narrowed down to objects; just objects.
He thinks about how he never said it. Not once.
Mostly, he believes, because he is a coward.
But he thinks it all the time, pointless now.
The sterile white of a wall and ceiling and floor.
The sound his feet make as he walks away.
The past clinging to his skin with hooks.
(“All love stories,” Rose says. “All great love stories begin the same.”
“Yeah,” the Doctor answers. “How’s that?”
“Once upon a time.”
“March twenty-sixth. Two-thousand five.”
She rolls her eyes, and with her chin to shoulder says “Shut up.”
“About, oh, a quarter after six.”)
This is it, this beach.
He is determined to say it,
Opens his mouth and -