behold a dream .｡.:*☆ pink floyd imagines

syd #3

{ mail for beautiful syd }

to be alone with syd is the only way to be with him. especially as you are now, acid-high:

"september is the month for artists," he tells you. he is half-clothed in your living room, crossed-legged and bordering on consciousness.

above, the ceiling is peeling apart at the center to reveal an iridescent second skin. you bite your lip and move your gaze to syd. his skin is gushing popsicle-orange, candy-shiny. you scoot closer to him and place your head on his lap. the velvet against your cheek is a cloud's caress.

"and the month of grief. death to come," syd breathes. he settles his hand on your head and your legs fall through the carpet, a slow fall, like floating in water. you can only hold yourself upright with your hands on syd's knees. meanwhile, his fingers press to your scalp, seep, and cause you to shudder.

"let's make love," you say. "for september."

syd hums. the sound is tulips bursting. "the ninth month of the second year i've craved you."

his hand unwinds you. your grip almost slips on his knees when he brings your face to his. kisses like popped bubble gum. hands made from marble. chest substantial with heat.

you are upright, propped against him, becoming green lush valleys on a summer day.

"i'm with you," you remind him. maybe he's forgotten.

but he hasn't, because he exhales and sets dreams into you, tucked within on the living room carpet. painting, thrilling, coming.

you tilt your head away and find him, find the essence of him: good and sweet enough to share. your name is spelled out in his breath and the sounds tuck and bury behind your ear.

he gives up. you crumple him. heat circles the air in the living room.

to be alone with syd is the only way to be with him. in turn, to share his space is the only way to receive him. the sandalwood candle burns out in the room. smoke weaves up.

"there is the last of it," syd says. "the soul."

your body suddenly feels made of candle wax. you pull him closer.