“Everyone, at some point in their lives, wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling that they are all alone in the world, and that nobody loves them now and that nobody will ever love them, and that they will never have a decent night’s sleep again and will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve, but suspecting, in their heart of hearts, that they will remain unloved forever. The best thing to do in these circumstances is to wake somebody else up, so that they can feel this way, too.”—Lemony Snicket (via durianquotes)
They lie on the grass, fingers laced together, bodies pressed against each other. Navy bleeds slowly across the golden skyline, framing the city in swirling hues of blue and orange. The quiet heat of a summer evening has settled across them both.
“Nobody is inherently ‘good’ or ‘bad’,” he mumbles against her skin, fingers entwined in her hair. “You can’t draw distinctions like that. It’s not linear.”
She sighs, closing her eyes and tracing the edges of his face - jawline, nose, lips, eyes - with her fingertips. “But people are moralistic. We like our black and whites. Something’s good or it’s bad. Something’s beautiful or it’s not. There’s a thin line between the two.”
“Everything should be grey until consequences establish exactly what it is. An action could be bad but have good intentions. An action could be good but stimulate adverse reactions. What is good or bad is like truth - it’s defined by our perceptions.” His face is tingling under her touch and he’s finding it hard to concentrate. She laughs; the sound feels like sunshine kissing his skin.
“How very philosophical of you.”
Silence lingers between them now. A light breeze plays against the warm stillness. Somewhere, a car starts, its asthmatic wheeze exploding through the air. She moves closer to him, pulling his chest against hers, breathing in the heady scent of cologne infused with his sweat.
“Mm?” he murmurs, eyelids drooping; her presences is like an anesthetic, like Novocaine, numbing him to the outside world. He loves it.
“Just promise me one thing.”
“I’d give you anything. You know that.”
She buries her face in his shirt, the material rough against her face. Being with him is so easy, so familiar. She doesn’t want to say the next words, but she knows she has to. she knows that it’s important for both of them.
“Promise me that whether or not I’m a good person - whether I’m ugly or beautiful, kind or mean, old or young - promise me you won’t fall in love with me.”
I want the taste of your name on my tongue, the flavour bitter-sweet and lingering like acid drops. I want your hands to find the undulations of my heart against the curve of my breast. I want it to beat in time with yours as our bodies press together, the moment before our first kiss conveying more than words ever could. I want your fingertips on my pulse and you hand tangled in my hair and your lips ghosting across mine. I want you to feel my words as they run between your teeth. I want love. I want lust. I want to make your breathing hitch and I want you between moments and feelings and thoughts as they curl and knot together. I want to make your skin burn, your bones ache. I want you, entire.