Yet each man kills the thing he loves
Jan. 4th, 2010 08:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
toujours_nigel
For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ceredwensirius, Remus/Sirius, for the prompt 'strife', here:
You don’t allow your memory of him, shining and free, to intrude upon the man you see in your house and his, burning through solitude with a stubborn impatience you thought your own, like his shackles aren’t voluntarily his.
You don’t speak of the secrets prickling like fur under your skin, like a hair-shirt worn in public humiliation, pushing up under the pallid moon, like the hundred confessions you bit bloody into his flesh.
You don’t touch, though your hands ache for the remembered shape of his broken body, and the nights you spend in his house are like flesh stripped away by your claws and your dreams are of blood in your ravening mouth.
You don’t let your steps slow, or waver hesitantly as you brush past him out into the crisp nights he sees through glass and iron bars like the familiar prison of his father’s arms, his mother’s tomb. You have made an art of the averted glance, the conversational side-step.
You don’t stop looking up when he comes into a room, or reading into the tilt of his head meanings like words on a yellowed page, like tattoos prison-carved on his faded flesh. You have tried.
ceredwensirius, Remus/Sirius, for the prompt 'strife', here:You don’t allow your memory of him, shining and free, to intrude upon the man you see in your house and his, burning through solitude with a stubborn impatience you thought your own, like his shackles aren’t voluntarily his.
You don’t speak of the secrets prickling like fur under your skin, like a hair-shirt worn in public humiliation, pushing up under the pallid moon, like the hundred confessions you bit bloody into his flesh.
You don’t touch, though your hands ache for the remembered shape of his broken body, and the nights you spend in his house are like flesh stripped away by your claws and your dreams are of blood in your ravening mouth.
You don’t let your steps slow, or waver hesitantly as you brush past him out into the crisp nights he sees through glass and iron bars like the familiar prison of his father’s arms, his mother’s tomb. You have made an art of the averted glance, the conversational side-step.
You don’t stop looking up when he comes into a room, or reading into the tilt of his head meanings like words on a yellowed page, like tattoos prison-carved on his faded flesh. You have tried.
