MissRemorse

Yes, i still feel the bruise I've seen you, in the wintry arms of distance, brushing with fingertips ablaze with uncertainty my freezing skin. I breathe, i feel your touch, and i lie still against this expression, against this heart making love with mine. I can understand, my half lidded eyes pour from darkness and do not except your kindness, not now.. not in this pale, withering state. I brand your name with harsh words, and offer nothing of mine own.. when once i offered naked love so foolishly so eagerly that it causes me to close, to forget. and i tremble in the presence of this winter, forcing my limbs into submission, forcing my heart

his whispers were ghostly living within the ancient walls of her human heart. He seemed to have spoken, yet within the longing ache of the winter solstice there remained no evidence to be seen. His limbs were strangely without movement; his eyes peering amidst the chaos of Janvier's storm. He sought her attentions vehemently, yet she would never have known for he contained an elegant talent for concealing. and when he left he kissed her lips, her hair swaying in the winds. He would never forget these eloquent images: her hair, her cold, yet yielding mouth, and her warm yet tantilizingly icy gaze. He is the ocean. she the shore. Dee

Awake in Janvier      There were remnants of her voice lingering within the dark morning's final rainfall. The shore was frozen, the water halted in the very instant in which it would of crashed upon the sand, silent and glistening in the dying moonlight. His fingers were reaching out for the waves, imprisoned in ice, gazing beneath the surface as if he would catch a glimpse of her face.      Distantly, the soft patter of heels walked amid the breeze, and his breath escaped him as he saw her walking upon the oceans surface. It did not crack and suggest giving way beneath her feet; the air was devoid of noise, absent of language of any kin

The morning's last rays tremble upon the unbroken sheets of ice covering the Rivers of December. The hour suggests a silence, suggests a hand gripping another, and suggests softness in its sweetest performance. Her arms are wrapped around her legs, just tight enough to contain heat, yet just weak enough to allow some of it to escape. Her breath is tangled within the layers of struggling attachment billowing around her, and her eyes are heavy with the promise of sleep, awake with the fear of dreaming, closed with a fear of the sun and its ability to expose her.   The air is soft against her skin, gently passing to contain the memory of human

Her voice was hoarse, and in his presence she dared not utter any words. Her breath was caught somewhere in her frozen lungs. She could feel crystals break from the edges as her breath forced itself to continue. There were angels decorating every overtaken lawn, and now in such dusk their creators had gone away. Left her to linger, without greetings. Her steps were ghostly, as if she did not know she was dead, as if she could not recall the moment in which she had persuaded her body to let go. There was darkness there, shadows contending with light, before finally swallowing it completely. Her fingers were reading the surfaces left behind in

She was resting beneath autumns last offering, brushing the occasional dying leaf from her paper. She closed her eyes for a moment and heard a man on a megaphone, and mistook his voice for God's. So loud and so clear rang his words, and in the sanctuary of her own mind it was an address simply for her. There was a breeze, and in its wake the voice cleared the air around her, and abandoned her heart completely. There were damaged letters set all around her like barriers, like bars, encouraging solitude. You could have sworn she was beckoning anything but the sight of you. With a rustle of her page her eyes flew open to fall upon the crowds bel

She was insignificant, perhaps, if you will, a tiny fragment of existence within the deep claims of Earth. Her eyes seemed to him as if tides, colors upon colors falling in upon themselves until what was once there soon disappeared. Her figure was, to some, an average display of beauty, and even as a jutting piece of fence caught her dress and tore it away from her leg there were no observers. The road was sheeted in sweet newborn light, and there were many in which had come to share in its glory, yet she said nothing to each heart. To each voice in which addressed her there were angry strikes and bitter sighs, which clung to her lips like th