Work Text:
It is hard to find at first.
The ruined one, they say.
He said once that they are all ruined.
Time has had her way with it;
Locked it into passionate embraces
Given dust leave to lie with it in bed
Brought countless fingers to caress and hold
Leaving lovebites where they clung too tightly.
Leather on leather
Finger on paper
And it is dry, creased
Crackling under your touch
As it sighs as it never sighed before.
It is out of practice.
Perhaps you are, too.
The city stares up, one perfect photograph
Blurred and blackened at the edges.
It is beautiful, dusty and dirty
Sheltering villains who prowl the streets
Raining on women in lace bodices
Heels of buttoned shoes clipping the cobblestones.
He is caught too, smiling
Frowning
You question.
It’s hard to tell
Under the sepia.
He’s not brown, though.
He is grey
Mysterious and pinstriped
Cold and clever
And watching
Always watching
Waiting.
The paper snaps under your hardened hand.
It is yellow now
Brittle and stained with salt
Water
A product of too many nights
Too afraid to throw it away
Too afraid to leave it undamaged.
The spine gave up long ago
It has split
Cracked
Broken and resigned
As you hold it close.
He is not smiling
He is not frowning
It would be easier without the sepia
It drains life of its colour
Feeling.
The violet hour strikes.
You leave the pages crackling
No water.
Just salt
You ignore his stare as you hurry away
How proud he would be
Of how you burn in shame.
He burned you once
Set fire to your heart
You never put it out
Because it meant
He was always with you
Even when he was killing you
From the inside.
But he’s not the fire.
That’s you.
He is the smoke
Lingering and choking
And you know you can’t resist
His hold.
You burn him now
Cold and unfeeling
Tears no longer on the page.
(they’re in your heart
fighting the fire
losing the battle
because love crumbles less easily
than paper)