begin
Title: Begin
Original Text Erased: Under Your Skin
Erased by: obstinatrix
Original text author: flecalicious
Fandom (of original text): BBC Sherlock
Fandom (of erasure): None
He comes downstairs to find her by the window,
staring past the glass and into nothing,
fine bones twisting under skin.
the street lights have come on,
yellow light over everything.
He dreams of piano keys and violin strings,
a vague thought above him, breathing his name.
Perhaps she kisses him. The world
an impression of skin and teeth and mouth,
pressure points of feeling, hey Jude don't be afraid.
The taste of her magnifies, folds in on itself,
becomes half remembered strings and her face.
"What do you think about," he asks,
"what do you think about?"
(she is trapped inside a circle of information, back
against an afterthought.)
"What do you think about?" he asks.
(Her thoughts are too big and too complicated
for the rest of the world.)
The game is on again.
He clenches his hands inside his pockets;
not his place to say yes or no,
to ask or prevent.
He thinks of a pill clutched in her fingers,
a red dot in the middle of her forehead.
She doesn't notice.
He thinks about kissing her, hands
running down his spine, butterfly touches.
She disappears like a whisper:
he dreams of chasms and dark distances,
violin strings around his neck.
Temple to shoulder, elbow to elbow,
she's saying mine. He
inhales the scent of her and wonders.
The stain
flakes off easily.
"Come to bed," he asks. "Please."
She is looking out of the window.
She is looking out of the window, violin
in one hand, bow in the other.
(what do you think about?)
She is looking out of the window:
hey Jude, begin.
She says, "I'm thinking about you."
He falls asleep to the sound.
Original Text Erased: Under Your Skin
Erased by: obstinatrix
Original text author: flecalicious
Fandom (of original text): BBC Sherlock
Fandom (of erasure): None
He comes downstairs to find her by the window,
staring past the glass and into nothing,
fine bones twisting under skin.
the street lights have come on,
yellow light over everything.
He dreams of piano keys and violin strings,
a vague thought above him, breathing his name.
Perhaps she kisses him. The world
an impression of skin and teeth and mouth,
pressure points of feeling, hey Jude don't be afraid.
The taste of her magnifies, folds in on itself,
becomes half remembered strings and her face.
"What do you think about," he asks,
"what do you think about?"
(she is trapped inside a circle of information, back
against an afterthought.)
"What do you think about?" he asks.
(Her thoughts are too big and too complicated
for the rest of the world.)
The game is on again.
He clenches his hands inside his pockets;
not his place to say yes or no,
to ask or prevent.
He thinks of a pill clutched in her fingers,
a red dot in the middle of her forehead.
She doesn't notice.
He thinks about kissing her, hands
running down his spine, butterfly touches.
She disappears like a whisper:
he dreams of chasms and dark distances,
violin strings around his neck.
Temple to shoulder, elbow to elbow,
she's saying mine. He
inhales the scent of her and wonders.
The stain
flakes off easily.
"Come to bed," he asks. "Please."
She is looking out of the window.
She is looking out of the window, violin
in one hand, bow in the other.
(what do you think about?)
She is looking out of the window:
hey Jude, begin.
She says, "I'm thinking about you."
He falls asleep to the sound.