Ficlet- White Lies
This is just a little ficlet I wrote at two in the morning...had to get it out, it wouldnt let me sleep. Maybe I'll expand on it later. Enjoy :) Feedback is always appreciated!
It's moments like these that he clings to...
When she's kissing him, deep and soft, and she tastes like spring rain, bittersweet with life and sadness. Her fingers curling in his hair, her tongue dancing with his and she smells of ash and something like roses. He can almost tell himself that it's real in moments like these. That she really wants him, that they hadn't been thrown together by their hurt. That she hadn't come to him with tears in her eyes, a shattered shadow of the girl she'd once been, begging him to help her connect with her flesh again. That she hadn't pressed herself up against him and screamed that she was numb all over, sobbed that she was fading away without them there. He could almost tell himself that he hadn't ached like she did for an end to that numbing pain. That they needed each other for more than the fact that they were the only ones left who knew how it felt to have your entire life ripped away slowly. When she crawled into his bed and curled against him, her warmth sinking into his bones. He could almost believe the lie he told to himself when he said she was thinking only of him when she shuddered around his fingers. That he didn't hear her tiny whispers of the names of the dead. When he called her at midnight and begged to come over. He was almost being honest when he pretended he was thinking only of her when he pushed her up against the door of her flat, and took her right there.
When they lay in bed after, and her hair curled on his chest, he could almost convince her that he loved her, but she always saw the shadow in his eyes when he said it, and she knew he could see it in hers when she whispered it back.
They cling to these moments, because there is nothing left to hold on to but each other and their white lies...
It's moments like these that he clings to...
When she's kissing him, deep and soft, and she tastes like spring rain, bittersweet with life and sadness. Her fingers curling in his hair, her tongue dancing with his and she smells of ash and something like roses. He can almost tell himself that it's real in moments like these. That she really wants him, that they hadn't been thrown together by their hurt. That she hadn't come to him with tears in her eyes, a shattered shadow of the girl she'd once been, begging him to help her connect with her flesh again. That she hadn't pressed herself up against him and screamed that she was numb all over, sobbed that she was fading away without them there. He could almost tell himself that he hadn't ached like she did for an end to that numbing pain. That they needed each other for more than the fact that they were the only ones left who knew how it felt to have your entire life ripped away slowly. When she crawled into his bed and curled against him, her warmth sinking into his bones. He could almost believe the lie he told to himself when he said she was thinking only of him when she shuddered around his fingers. That he didn't hear her tiny whispers of the names of the dead. When he called her at midnight and begged to come over. He was almost being honest when he pretended he was thinking only of her when he pushed her up against the door of her flat, and took her right there.
When they lay in bed after, and her hair curled on his chest, he could almost convince her that he loved her, but she always saw the shadow in his eyes when he said it, and she knew he could see it in hers when she whispered it back.
They cling to these moments, because there is nothing left to hold on to but each other and their white lies...