starcross
"What's love," she says, pushing me against the wall, "If you can't do a single damned thing about it?"
She's kissing me now, and it's ferocious, devouring; even as I pull her closer, even after her name tumbles from my lips like an angel's whisper—even then, I can't help but want something soft, sweet.
Something that will last.
She is fire and brimstone while I am water and silk, but all the duality metaphors in the world can't hide the intrusive feeling that we are in truth unsuited for each other. Even so, I sometimes like to think that she is as tired of this game as I am. When her lips are on my neck and I'm looking at the ceiling, I like to think of our lives, our lives if we could live them together.
And then my throat closes and my stomach lurches and my vision blurs, so if her eyes are wet against my shirt, I don't notice at all.