realities desperation | ✫

thirty-three!

| epilogue | 

you - petit biscuit (loop)

The morning sun feels too kind, its gracious as the clouds cover winter blues. The dying leaves that  brown are now cleared from the paths. 

Every morning since December has been cold and it turns on you when you leave the comfort of the bedsheets. Even now, I know that if I am to leave, the sharp, numbing feeling will eat away at my skin.

Even now, the sheets feel too cold, they rub against my body uncomfortably, in these solemn moments that I have to myself.

And as if my thoughts had been read by my lover, the mattress dips and a man groans, throwing himself down and laying his left arm over mine, his body scooting closer, his face pressed against my lips so that my warm breath can guide the cold away.

We have brought sanctum to our worried thoughts. And in these cold mornings, we tell ourselves that everything will be alright, and that we'll only have each other to help ourselves.

He now lays his chin on my shoulder, my eyes still beckoned shut, and yet he knew I was awake. Neither of us spoke, deeming too tired to be bothered. And instead he waits for my fingertips to find his, and they do. We've found a way to let each other know we're there, pressing our fingertips against each other, not enough for our fingers to fully entwine nor intertwine. And so, it's more than okay for us.

But enough is enough for him, and he groans, the desperation of wanting more drowning his heart. I grin, a desirable effect, this is; and i'll never get enough of it. 

So finally, when I get bored of the morning antics, I do intertwine our fingers together, they lace and match one another, magnets.

"Morning Honey." His voice rumbles and his head pulls away from my shoulder, laughing as I squint my eyes open. The raw light falls over his skin, honey-freckled and thin lips pulled together into a smile, genuine. Laugh lines detail his face, and wrinkles in the outer corners of his eyes have made their mark permanently. 

Green eyes that watch mine, with devotion, with desire and desperation; despair. Loathe and lust, our words that slipped through my mind so many, years, ago. 

And even now as we wonder what we are, what we have become of. 

"Good Morning."

A person you can know so little about, and love so much, will be there for infinity. That forever, was infinity, and Clay Davidson would stay around for infinity. Sure, he had a world, a reputation, a  lie, a truth and a life. And to say that I was once only the lie, was the truth, but forever now I would be his life.

We were a beauty in a world of selfishness. And when everything was terrifying, the desperation for everything to be okay, was enough for us.

It was always enough for us.

Us,

us;

US.

I loved the word. The thought of togetherness, of the two, him and I forever. For infinity.

The desperation of it was a reality that had dawned, forever-onwards. 

We don't need words, in these mornings of selfish temperatures. Just the thoughts that tread our minds guilty of loving one another, our hearts pleading guilty, too. But it is him who speaks first.

"We need to get up."

Why.

And as if he could read my mind, he scoffs, daring to look me in the eye with a grin and a shake of his head. "Remember we promised Bette that we wouldn't actually be late to her kids birthday this year?" He deadpanned, gross and greasy blonde hair falling in my face to the point i have to squirm away.