Work Text:
Safety: knowing you two lie on that line, a boundary that he wouldn't be scared to cross, but with your arms crossed: your lips scramble to a cross expression. You deny, deny, deny.
He knows it's comfortability, being able to laugh at you all the way to that line. Lying with you, lying with his attentiveness. He sits next to you.
The chair rocks on that line, looking upon porch swings; mowed grass airs phlegmatic voices that speak over you. He joins in their remember when conversations: he teases his abundance of grandiosity. He rocks on that chair, looking beyond your time.
That time is on your watch: he taunts his defiance of it. Stampeding wild, horsed voices overwhelm your senses: borrowing minutes on that line. He stands, he reckons you a martyr, a "woman who's had it up to here." Mimicks feminism as a weapon against him, you'll save time to draw out your sword and all.
Take away his comfortability, raise your voice to his: safety is an angel's leach without the permance of God's gentility. Time, time, time. Make sure he doesn't cross that line.