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Literature Text
His skin was the color of moonlight, and I think that maybe that was because he preferred not to go out in the sun if he could avoid it. It was that perfect shade of white that might remind one of freshly washed linens or a young girl in her nightgown wandering long corridors in a large estate. His hair was beautiful and the color of midnight; one doesn't get much darker than that. If you had the courage to look into his eyes, it was impossible to look away. It was like leaning over the edge of a huge abyss and trying to peer into the darkness. And then you would accidentally tip in and fall forever. He had a terrible temper and always seemed brooding, but I knew better. He didn't really have a temper, he just got over passionate about some things, and he wasn't brooding because if you took a chance and fell into his abysses, then you'd notice a dreamy gleam that shone like the moon when it was full.
she blazes more brightly than a supernova on the verge of explosion. i oftentimes find myself having to shield my eyes; she doesn't just reflect the sunlight, she absorbs and emanates it. there's a warmth, and it draws me in, and thaws away at my soul. her hair is the colour of the sky at sunset and sunrise, a beautiful mix of blazing reds and warms yellows. her eyes are a calming sea bluegreen and she brings me to life with her bright, youth filled gaze. she seemed to have a love for everything, and could find the goodness in anything. she didn't look on the bright side of life, she was the bright side. she puts optimists and philantrophists to shame. i've been fruitlessly searching for the perfect word to describe what she is, but all i can do is utter her name.
He's new and different and exhilarating; something no one like me has ever experienced before. I think maybe that novel in his hand was glued there, because I've never seen him set it down. His left hand is always wrapped around it's binding, and his fingers were so long they almost reached clear around. I've never seen the title; he never sets it down long enough for me to see the words printed on it's front.
There are moments when we're so close, so perfectly, impossibly, frighteningly close and I can smell his mint-leaves breath and see the way his dreamer's eyes sparkle in candlelight and I can taste his fear. I can hear his thrumming heartbeat when he holds me to his chest and I can almost hear his thoughts, too, I think, and it feels like I am him, and he is me, and there's nothing else in the world.
But then I'll pull away, and I don't know why, but I do and then it's like we're a light-year away and there's nothing either of us can do about it.
what she doesn't realize is that i stare endlessly at nothingness, willing the words from my mind to form something coherent that i can spill onto these old, worn pages. she is my inspiration; my muse, but nothing i dream of can even compare to what she is.
He's everything I'm not, and I know they say opposites attract, but is there such a thing as too opposite? He doesn't know that I can't sleep when he's not here. I can't sleep without my head on his chest, and without his hands running through my hair, and without his words tickling my ear and lulling me to sleep. He says he can't sing, but I don't think he has to. His voice and his words whispering to me are the most beautiful lullaby I've ever heard. He's perfect, and I hate him. I hate him for making me love him.
she completes who i am, and at the same time is the source of my destruction. we are polar, the age old war waged between fire and ice. my passion is cold and unforgiving, while she burns hot and fiery, melting away my defences, leaving me completely vulnerable to her burning, blazing touch. i am forever scarred by her.
Every time I see him, my breath stops and I get butterflies so hard that they hurt. I promised him that if it came to it, I would die for him, but what about torture? Did I ever promise to let myself be tortured on end? But of course, he promised me that he would never, ever hurt me. Well I love him so much it hurts. Did he mean some other kind of pain? Does pleasurable pain not count? Because it sure hurts like hell either way.
Maybe I'm a masochist, because why else would something feel so good it hurts, or hurt so good, one might say. But none of that matters when he's with me, because when he's with me he numbs me to a point of nothingness; nothingness except him and me--fire and ice that coexist. But when he's gone it's like he's piercing me with a thousand shards of ice and it hurts so bad. But I won't stop.
I can't.
she blazes more brightly than a supernova on the verge of explosion. i oftentimes find myself having to shield my eyes; she doesn't just reflect the sunlight, she absorbs and emanates it. there's a warmth, and it draws me in, and thaws away at my soul. her hair is the colour of the sky at sunset and sunrise, a beautiful mix of blazing reds and warms yellows. her eyes are a calming sea bluegreen and she brings me to life with her bright, youth filled gaze. she seemed to have a love for everything, and could find the goodness in anything. she didn't look on the bright side of life, she was the bright side. she puts optimists and philantrophists to shame. i've been fruitlessly searching for the perfect word to describe what she is, but all i can do is utter her name.
He's new and different and exhilarating; something no one like me has ever experienced before. I think maybe that novel in his hand was glued there, because I've never seen him set it down. His left hand is always wrapped around it's binding, and his fingers were so long they almost reached clear around. I've never seen the title; he never sets it down long enough for me to see the words printed on it's front.
There are moments when we're so close, so perfectly, impossibly, frighteningly close and I can smell his mint-leaves breath and see the way his dreamer's eyes sparkle in candlelight and I can taste his fear. I can hear his thrumming heartbeat when he holds me to his chest and I can almost hear his thoughts, too, I think, and it feels like I am him, and he is me, and there's nothing else in the world.
But then I'll pull away, and I don't know why, but I do and then it's like we're a light-year away and there's nothing either of us can do about it.
what she doesn't realize is that i stare endlessly at nothingness, willing the words from my mind to form something coherent that i can spill onto these old, worn pages. she is my inspiration; my muse, but nothing i dream of can even compare to what she is.
He's everything I'm not, and I know they say opposites attract, but is there such a thing as too opposite? He doesn't know that I can't sleep when he's not here. I can't sleep without my head on his chest, and without his hands running through my hair, and without his words tickling my ear and lulling me to sleep. He says he can't sing, but I don't think he has to. His voice and his words whispering to me are the most beautiful lullaby I've ever heard. He's perfect, and I hate him. I hate him for making me love him.
she completes who i am, and at the same time is the source of my destruction. we are polar, the age old war waged between fire and ice. my passion is cold and unforgiving, while she burns hot and fiery, melting away my defences, leaving me completely vulnerable to her burning, blazing touch. i am forever scarred by her.
Every time I see him, my breath stops and I get butterflies so hard that they hurt. I promised him that if it came to it, I would die for him, but what about torture? Did I ever promise to let myself be tortured on end? But of course, he promised me that he would never, ever hurt me. Well I love him so much it hurts. Did he mean some other kind of pain? Does pleasurable pain not count? Because it sure hurts like hell either way.
Maybe I'm a masochist, because why else would something feel so good it hurts, or hurt so good, one might say. But none of that matters when he's with me, because when he's with me he numbs me to a point of nothingness; nothingness except him and me--fire and ice that coexist. But when he's gone it's like he's piercing me with a thousand shards of ice and it hurts so bad. But I won't stop.
I can't.
yet another collab with the lovely carissa, ~PenlessAuthor 
she came up with the idea of the piece, so most of the credit goes to her.
she wrote as the girl, and i wrote as the boy.
if you favourite my version, please favourite hers too!
[link]
she came up with the idea of the piece, so most of the credit goes to her.
she wrote as the girl, and i wrote as the boy.
if you favourite my version, please favourite hers too!
[link]
Comments9
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amazingly breathtaking <3