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i
she lives in a daydream
(where i don’t belong)
He takes her to a field of wildflowers on a warm summer day, yet all he can see - all that he can remember in that morning landscape; in that hill overflowing and dancing with the petals of thousands of colorful blossoms and verdant greens - is the airy movement of the crisp white ends of her summer dress and the vibrance of her idyllic smile under the dazzling sunlight.
Her motions are utterly juvenile: the way that she opens her arms wide and extends her hands up to the sky as if to bask in the light, the way that she runs across and around the hill as she beheld every flower in sight, the way that she tries to make her footsteps as light and airy as possible to avoid trampling on the flowers, the way that she reaches out to a blossom of her fancy with lithe fingers gently caressing tender petals, the way that her playful laughter escapes her lips and is carried by the winds like birdsong on the crack of dawn.
She turns to him, and what he looks at is the reflection of sheer happiness, a mesmerizing image from any angle: the smile gracing her lips is wide and beautiful and it reaches her eyes; those shining blue eyes that land upon and gaze at him with pure glee. The wicker hat upon her head had slipped away from her head as she ran towards him, but she pays it no mind - she runs, dashes, sprints towards him and him alone; and for a moment he’s unsure on what to do.
It doesn’t matter because she takes his hand and leads him away, away from the shadow of the old oak tree and away from where the sun could barely reach.
And he helplessly yet gladly follows, the summer sun pouring in heat onto his clothes and skin; but not as much as the hand that held onto him and led him firmly.
ii
she is the healing
(and i am the pain)
He returns to the Red Army Headquarters, to his room, and to her once with a gash running diagonally across his left palm: the torn silk of his glove and the flesh surrounding the wound is all bright red and angry against the sheer pristine white of his uniform and his smiling teeth, and it only takes a glimpse of the mess that is his left hand that has her grabbing his wrist and dragging him to the infirmary.
The Seven of Hearts of course, was no longer present in his office in the dead of the night so she takes it upon herself to treat his injury, her pressed lips and stern voice enough to tell him that she would not take no for an answer. And so he sits and waits like he’s ordered to, watching her flutter about the cabinets like a woman possessed; fingers quivering and teeth biting tightly through her bottom lip.
When everything’s in place and she seats herself directly in front of him, she takes his left hand into both of her hands, tug and touch so gentle one would think she was handling glass. Dainty fingers slowly separate his hand from the ruined glove, and when she fully sees the gash in its entirety she just wilts: her mouth falls agape, blue eyes eminently grow wide and begin to shine, shoulders start shaking and fingers quake oh so subtly.
He tries to speak and reach out to her but she shakes her head - tresses of honey brown dance, strands fanning around her face, hiding herself from his sight.
She takes a cotton swab from the table, and begins to work in silence.
iii
and i will fall to her again
(for i know i’ve come too close)
There were the occasional nights that she felt brave and adventurous enough to lead their dance in bedroom, but he would admit he still took relish at the sight of her pinned down to the bed, his hands secured on her shoulders and one leg of his set firmly in between her legs. Looking at her from above, every feature of her that he has come to know and adore is within sight and definitely within reach, but what makes everything entirely different is the how color blooms forth from her flesh; the roseate glow painting through every inch of her sun-kissed skin.
She was simply captivating, no doubt about it.
The pleasant smells of sugar and baked goods that waft from her body and tickle his nose is the devil that whispers to strip her clothing aside and ravish her in earnest, and he complies: hands and fingers dance and squeeze about skin that was ever so supple and sensitive at his every touch, teeth graze lightly and bite steady on spots that have her singing, tongue both eager and tortuously teasing to retaste and reexplore every inch of her, lips coaxing out and swallowing every moan and whimper she could release from her throat.
But even as he gives she also desires to return - and so she peppers his neck to his shoulder with fleeting kisses, wraps her arms and herself fully around him so little to no space was left in between them, and her fingers trace patterns and linger over the oddest things; namely the fading scars on his back and that gash on his palm whose mark is slowly starting to fade.
Her fingertips go over those spots delicately, follow where they start up to they end, and each time; she would lean in and plant soft kisses on each and every scar, on each and every fading wound. The press of her lips on his skin is delicate yet so heavenly, and it only furthers the desire that threatens to consume him; and most especially her.
I love you, she whispers solemnly after her lips have left his palm, the surface tingling with an aching heat.
That, he truly understands without her saying. He pushes her softly back down on the mattress then he lowers his face, so close that their foreheads were touching and all he could see was a reflection of himself; smiling so lovingly in vivid blue eyes.
And I, you, he whispers in return.
Their bodies unite for the umpteenth time, and again they find themselves in paradise.