Fic: As We Are Wont, 7
Lupin:
Love letters are known for never ending so to refrain from love and letters, call these nothing. Insult me, tell me of my sins, but croon it softly in my ear when you think I'm sleeping. Smile as if you never knew me and I will roll over to snore. Tenderness, let it be the poet's conceit-- we have no place for it. Our words are pincushions filled with sawdust, a useful place for needles.
I cannot recognize your voice. I cannot recognize mine. My writing limited to reports, grading, potions recipes, full of sharp edges and sarcasm. What have you done to me? Why are we walking this way? It was a matter of scratching groins that itched but you would pull poetry from me like teeth.
Tell me why as I write to you, I write less of the past, and death, and regrets, and more about words. Tell me why love makes orators of fools, and brings the wisest to ruin. Tell me why our lives are given in sacrifice to a boy whose mother died because of misinformation delivered by a spider sealed with the kiss of a rat to a stag. Was not my love enough to buy a life? Are not our lives enough to grant reprieve?
This is not my voice, but a voice I've borrowed, or one who's borrowed me. I reach out and touch your fingertips, but you're as insubstantial as a ghost.
Damn you, Lupin. You've done what hundreds could not. You stole my voice and made me maudlin. I hope you burn for this.
SS