even in her dreams, his hands are cold.
he told her once, when the sun was shadowed by rain, that winter hugged him too tightly in the land of ce l es, and could never truly let him go/
no matter how sweetly the sun asked and tried to warm his bones. it was never sweet enough, hardly as sweet as her his spindly fingers skim over the curvature of her hips, and it's not the magician's touch of ice that causes her to shiver and gasp
//it almost scares her, these dreams she has of him, when she mistakes them for visions in the morning and she loses herself to a searing spreading blush
in her dreams,
his breath is warm and his mouth is soft,
softer still when she kisses him, and nectar surges through her solar plexus—and it is she who initiates contact, who craves this intimacy, who arches from his touch
then she wakes, and magenta washes over her glacial nerves once more.
until he grins at her, pale as ever and the same as she remembered, the man with a mended smile and her desert flower embrace is enough to make his frozen heart melt his hand is cold as he cradles the underside of her jaw, and this is reality, she knows, as she simpers at him in return.
this is real.
for a second, she leans into the cool palm of his clasp, loses herself in the flutter of ventricles//then she draws away, and says nothing about the weight of his gaze, how he watches her with a dulcet alkaline expression that she won't make sense of.
the same expression she catches herself reciprocating.
©
(i'm boring :/ )
