When their lips touch he rolls over top of her. She grasps onto the cotton of his shirt. When her cold cracked lips meet his warm ones; a fire starts. Yet not as bright as the one the night before. His everlasting warm fingertips brush her slightly pink freckled cheeks. Her grasp tightens and tugs ever so slightly to pull him closer. His warmth. Hands pull her closer. Hands pull him closer.
Then there’s hair. Hair fanned out onto the pillows of the bed. Hair tickling slightly pink freckled cheeks. Hair wrapped in warm fingers. Hair wrapped in cold fingers. His head is a tangled knot of adoration. And he’s loving every single minute of it.
But she’s confused, and her head begins to pound. So instead of stopping like a normal person would; she pulls him closer.
Then there’s lips. Lips met on corners of mouths. Lips thrown hastily against one another. And despite how hard it is to kiss when they smile, they smile. He pulls back ever so slightly and looks into her eyes. The blue that is normally ice; looked like the sea when the sun is sparkling down on it. They are melted rivers on spring days.
She feels heaven when he presses kisses over her cheeks, then nose, then forehead. As if savoring every last bit of her. Drinking her in. And slowly, like a melting river, she can feel the ice that encases her heart begin to thaw with every open-mouthed kiss or wherever his everlasting warm fingertips trace.
Yet perfect moments never last. And she wishes they could, just like how he wishes they could stay like this forever. So as lips are thrown together once more, she must will herself to stop. Lips waver and icy finger tips begin to shake. The pounding resurfaces like an alarm to bring her out of the perfect moment.
And then he stops.
And her thawing heart stops and freezes up tenfold. The spring days cease and winter returns, the ice encasing her once again.
He pulls away, his everlasting warm fingertips cease their movements. He rolls off her taking his warmth with him. And ever so quietly he whispers goodnight, praying he didn’t scare her. She is fragile, and he is walking on her icy river, praying. Praying it doesn’t crack underneath him.
And so, with the perfect moment gone he closes his eyes. Drifting in and out of dreams where cold icy finger tips slowly warm and slightly pink freckled cheeks are his. His to hold.
She doesn’t close her eyes. She waits till his breathing has evened out and the soft snores leave his mouth. She then herself lets out a deep breath. She shifts to see his chest rise and fall. She shifts and watches. She watches the heat radiate off him and she almost reaches out and curls into him as one would do as if it were a newly born fawn; needing comfort.
When the sun sets a soft glow around the pristine room, does she realise she hasn’t moved. She’s still watching. Watching the heat radiate off him. The need to be held by him turning into a physical ache. But she gets up before she gives in.
In the bathroom she makes marks of her fingertips across the mirror. Wondering if she left them there long enough would the mirror start to freeze? So, with icy fingertips she waits. She stands at the mirror and waits. Waits for it to turn icy, but it doesn’t. And she thinks that nothing she does works. And nothing she does is right. But that’s just who she is.
Throughout the day there are no perfect moments. He keeps to himself and her, to herself.
He sits watching the tv. And she sits watching him. Watching the heat radiate off him. Wishing she could curl up into his side. But she has self-control. A must in her life. A must to keep her life in check. So, with self-control on she watches him watching the tv. And notices a lot of things. She notices that when the show becomes tense he bites his lip or the inside of his cheek. She notices that if he is happy about something his eyes glint and his dimples show letting him smile, truly, fully. He never really smiles like that anymore. Not in front of her anyway.
He knows she is watching him. He doesn’t mind. Instead of feeling uncomfortable like a normal person would; he is comforted by it. He wishes she would come over and curl into his side. He wishes he could warm her icy fingertips. He knows she won’t, her self-control is too strong. So he watches the tv praying she’ll at some point come and curl into him. She doesn’t. But that’s ok. Because she’s watching him, and he knows she’s watching him and he’s comforted by it unlike a normal person would be.
When the sun disappears, and they slip under the covers, he pulls her closer. And their lips touch. When her cold cracked lips meet his warm ones; a fire starts. Yet not as bright as the one the night before. His everlasting warm fingertips brush her slightly pink freckled cheeks. Her grasp tightens and tugs ever so slightly to pull him closer. His warmth. Hands pull her closer. Hands pull him closer.
Then there’s hair. Hair fanned out onto the pillows of the bed. Hair tickling slightly pink freckled cheeks. Hair wrapped in warm fingers. Hair wrapped in cold fingers. His head is a tangled knot of adoration. And he’s loving every single minute of it.
But she’s confused, and her head begins to pound. So, like a normal person would; she stops.
And the perfect moment is gone before it could even start. And they both wonder if any of it was ever perfect.
