truly, madly, deeply
title: truly, madly, deeply
pairing: kris!centric. kris/lay (fanxing)
word count: 806 words
rating: pg-13
genre: angst. implied!character death.
disclaimer: i don't own them.
They handed me a pen, one worthy of royalty-yet I am not-, and they plead for me to write. Insist that I wrote everything that came to mind, they did, and I am lost as to why they would ask such a task of me. I am of no importance in the society that others consider natural. What are they expecting I ink the blank papers with? The sorrowful representation of life, which is I? Are they thinking that I would decorate the sheets with something that is other than rage… my pen inks the pages with senseless words-they’re everything to me, but to someone else, what are they but empty words? I am confusing, and sense; I make none of this. I scribe, but what does any of such words mean to someone who is not I? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I am far from perfection, I fail to follow the impeccable talent of writers who manage to dot every ‘I’, and cross every ‘T’. But, words, I know words. Words are what I spoke to you, and they are everything to the story that couldn’t have been. There is no happy ending to a person who holds no special place in this kind of society. Not for me-yet, you; are you happy?
“Who are you?”
“I’m someone who you don’t know. A stranger.”
“Can we change that?”
Eyes glimmered with mischief, and pink lips quirked into an amused grin, “Are you interested in changing that?”
My love, I write of you. I write of live, and the way your eyes surpass the brilliant beauty of the stars, the ebony of your hair; more fair than that of evanescent charcoal. And I scribe words which speak of a love that once existed. I love you, I love you, but this love cannot be. You are everything to me.
They tell me to write as if in a million years, my words will mean something to bone-headed fools, who know nothing of love; who knows nothing of us, and the passion in which our hearts burn for one another. I sneer at ridiculous fools who mistaken lust for love. It is nothing close to the sort, and I had yet to even clasp my fingers with yours, before I knew that I was in love with you.
A quiet grunt sounded before everything was finally put into place.
“Are we done?”
“Yeah, this is our own home now. Just you and me.”
A tug on delicate fingers pulled the other body closer, and foreheads pressed together affectionately, “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
But what is a place you can’t call home? My words still tell a story of the darkness that resides in my heart, because I’m lacking your presence, you’re eternally in my heart, but a real presence does not exist. Fire, fire, fire; a searing pain ripped through a shattered heart, and burning, to ashes, a place that was once called ‘home’.
“How long has it been, Yifan?”
“Since what?”
“Since he disappeared.”
Sharp eyes met with curious ones, and a silence settled between them. This wasn’t a topic to be spoken of.
And what is a man that you cannot love? He tells me he loves me, but I cannot bring myself to believe him. I only know you, I only love you. He’s a nice man, kind and generous (but I only love you). They tell my heart to forget you; my mind tries, but my heart holds on. It hurts, it hurts; it hurts so much. What am I even looking for anymore? Why the hell do I feel so insecure? No, I shouldn’t be like this.
(There’s a target pointed behind me.)
(How do you scream?)
“I can’t remember.”
(Why is my voice muffled?)
(“Save me.”)
What is someone who you can’t call yours? (You, you, you.) Ah, the corners of my eyes burn so badly, so suddenly. Am I crying? My eyes feel wet; no, it must be raining. (I forgot how to cry when you vanished.) I can’t look up, because I must continue to write; ah, my dear; have you ever seen rain that is the colour of a deep sanguine? No? The rain is staining my papers. There are blotches of crimson over my inked words. You once told me how much you liked the combination of black and red… do you still like it? I do.
Love, love, love; it makes you fall into an endless spiral of emotions-but why can’t I feel anything anymore? Our love wasn’t real? No, that’s preposterous. Our love was real. It was. Couldn’t you feel it? Can’t you feel it now? My love, I love you truly, madly, deeply. Our love was real…
Wait for me, dear; I am coming.
“He’s a monster!”
Bang.
a/n: are you confused? i'm sorry.
do you want explanations. otl
pairing: kris!centric. kris/lay (fanxing)
word count: 806 words
rating: pg-13
genre: angst. implied!character death.
disclaimer: i don't own them.
They handed me a pen, one worthy of royalty-yet I am not-, and they plead for me to write. Insist that I wrote everything that came to mind, they did, and I am lost as to why they would ask such a task of me. I am of no importance in the society that others consider natural. What are they expecting I ink the blank papers with? The sorrowful representation of life, which is I? Are they thinking that I would decorate the sheets with something that is other than rage… my pen inks the pages with senseless words-they’re everything to me, but to someone else, what are they but empty words? I am confusing, and sense; I make none of this. I scribe, but what does any of such words mean to someone who is not I? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I am far from perfection, I fail to follow the impeccable talent of writers who manage to dot every ‘I’, and cross every ‘T’. But, words, I know words. Words are what I spoke to you, and they are everything to the story that couldn’t have been. There is no happy ending to a person who holds no special place in this kind of society. Not for me-yet, you; are you happy?
“Who are you?”
“I’m someone who you don’t know. A stranger.”
“Can we change that?”
Eyes glimmered with mischief, and pink lips quirked into an amused grin, “Are you interested in changing that?”
My love, I write of you. I write of live, and the way your eyes surpass the brilliant beauty of the stars, the ebony of your hair; more fair than that of evanescent charcoal. And I scribe words which speak of a love that once existed. I love you, I love you, but this love cannot be. You are everything to me.
They tell me to write as if in a million years, my words will mean something to bone-headed fools, who know nothing of love; who knows nothing of us, and the passion in which our hearts burn for one another. I sneer at ridiculous fools who mistaken lust for love. It is nothing close to the sort, and I had yet to even clasp my fingers with yours, before I knew that I was in love with you.
A quiet grunt sounded before everything was finally put into place.
“Are we done?”
“Yeah, this is our own home now. Just you and me.”
A tug on delicate fingers pulled the other body closer, and foreheads pressed together affectionately, “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
But what is a place you can’t call home? My words still tell a story of the darkness that resides in my heart, because I’m lacking your presence, you’re eternally in my heart, but a real presence does not exist. Fire, fire, fire; a searing pain ripped through a shattered heart, and burning, to ashes, a place that was once called ‘home’.
“How long has it been, Yifan?”
“Since what?”
“Since he disappeared.”
Sharp eyes met with curious ones, and a silence settled between them. This wasn’t a topic to be spoken of.
And what is a man that you cannot love? He tells me he loves me, but I cannot bring myself to believe him. I only know you, I only love you. He’s a nice man, kind and generous (but I only love you). They tell my heart to forget you; my mind tries, but my heart holds on. It hurts, it hurts; it hurts so much. What am I even looking for anymore? Why the hell do I feel so insecure? No, I shouldn’t be like this.
(There’s a target pointed behind me.)
(How do you scream?)
“I can’t remember.”
(Why is my voice muffled?)
(“Save me.”)
What is someone who you can’t call yours? (You, you, you.) Ah, the corners of my eyes burn so badly, so suddenly. Am I crying? My eyes feel wet; no, it must be raining. (I forgot how to cry when you vanished.) I can’t look up, because I must continue to write; ah, my dear; have you ever seen rain that is the colour of a deep sanguine? No? The rain is staining my papers. There are blotches of crimson over my inked words. You once told me how much you liked the combination of black and red… do you still like it? I do.
Love, love, love; it makes you fall into an endless spiral of emotions-but why can’t I feel anything anymore? Our love wasn’t real? No, that’s preposterous. Our love was real. It was. Couldn’t you feel it? Can’t you feel it now? My love, I love you truly, madly, deeply. Our love was real…
Wait for me, dear; I am coming.
“He’s a monster!”
Bang.
a/n: are you confused? i'm sorry.
do you want explanations. otl