rachel (ohruby) wrote in nightdaydreamer,

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{separation of the parts of a compound word by one or more intervening words}

She does not always remember the color of his eyes- what is color but something he is erasing from his life? Every photograph he takes in black and white is progress towards a future of colorless memories. All she wants these days is to be the only glowing thing in his world: the only shaded strokes of indigo beneath his tired eyes.

Baby, do as I say and not as I do.

She can’t sleep without him and he can’t sleep at all- she does not ask where his night goes and he does not ask what she dreams. But the knowledge of his long hours and fingertips pressing rhythm into the drums stashed in the corner gets caught in her throat. The idea of him alone like that- so far from her and her silent warmth- is hard to breathe around, and tonight is not the first night she has dreamt of standing alone on the lake with the pale blue of his lips pressing at the solid ice beneath her feet, eyes wide and coated in distorting crystals of snow.

She always holds herself before she falls asleep at night, fingers gripping the soft flesh of her back. She hopes that by keeping his place in her bed at night- she forms her body around the place his used to lie- that he will sense it and come to her. Somehow his heart will feel the heated space left for it, and he will come slipping through the freezing midnight streets to find her. He will come, she is sure that he will. So far, he hasn’t.

Subtle dawn slips through his windows and over where he has fallen, exhausted, into his bed. The sheets tangle and tear around him in wild configurations. If she were here she would watch for omens in the way the fabric traps their feet together.

Her night stretches ever onwards towards morning and her dreams coil in on one another, twisting angry and lambent across frozen landscapes. The ineffable horror of waking without him- he is rarely in her bed, so she sees the fear of loss in a more general sense- manifests itself as an ocean spilling across the wood of her bedroom floor. It laps at her feet and waves pound at every door, holing her where she cannot find him and where he will not tread.

He dreams of her, and the way the tendrils of her hair spill so elegantly through his fingers when she sleeps.

(THIS IS NOT FINISHED. I am writing this piece partially because ginblossom inspired me, and partially because I need to get a new short story out.)
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