gotquark7

The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows Dark.  It's dark, and time has stopped.  It hasn't slowed, it hasn't sped up, it's frozen.  It's frozen, and I can't move.  I can't speak.  I can't force a sound out of my immobile mouth, I can't register yet that what has happened has happened.  And you're standing there, so coy, so beautifully unattainable; with your smirk and the way your cocky hands have slipped into your trousers so casually. "So that's it then.  It's over."  I can hear the tears in my own voice, but, if he can as well, he disregards them. "Looks like it."  Your voice, like a honeyed spider web, entrancing victims with the sweet

Is anyone truly meant to be forgotten?  Five years ago, I would have told you the answer to that is 'no,' but now…. Now I suppose I can't be sure of anything.  I have pushed you from my mind time and time again.  I have forgotten you, but each time you snake you way into my heart again and put me right back where we started. I suppose I could just leave, I could just go—you did tell me to once.  Do you remember?  You wouldn't, your erasures work fine.  It is only mine that end up botched, only mine that leave me with traces of memories of you.  Nothing clear, mind you.  Just faint glimpses of the life I lead with you as my co-pilot. I can al

For Young-Masters-Puppet: .x. Tequila .x. He looked down at the ring of dark brown liquid that his chipped mug had formed on the tiled table, mesmerized.  He couldn't believe that it had happened again – again – when he had sworn to himself that the last time was the end of it all.  The end of everything.  He had said it to himself, he had said it to Mateo, he had written it a hundred times just to burn it into his rebellious subconscious:  he was never going back.  Of course, he said this every time, and every so often he ended up here, staring blankly and still trembling in a way his wife could never make him tremble.  That was what he ha

Dernier He hates everything about this place.  He hates the way that his shoes squeak so excruciatingly loudly with every step he takes and the way that everyone is so damn quiet in the halls.  He despises the sterile smell, the imminently faint echoes of sobs, the way the secretaries at Visitor Check-In recognize his face and let him through without a word.  More than all of this, however, he hates not being with her. It's been a year since the initial diagnosis and three months since the doctor – an old man like himself with wiry gray hair that contrasted with his dark skin - told him sadly that he would never take his wife home, and yet

"Shut the fucking baby up." She turned her head disdainfully, glaring at the man sitting on her threadbare sofa.  The light was dim in the early morning – just after six o'clock – and he seemed to be made of shadow.  There was panic in his eyes. "I don't know how." "Well maybe if you were around a little more," she snapped nastily.  Her hands were shaking.  Walking over to the large sliding glass door, she pulled a pack of More cigarettes from her pocket, slipping one of the slender sticks into her mouth and lighting it.  She relaxed immediately.  Leaning against the windowpane, she exhaled the smoke slowly, casually. She had always wante

She was as beautiful in death as in life.  Her long, loose curls framed her snow-white face, and her eyes were closed in peace and eternal rest.  Gone were the lines of stress and strain from her young face, but also was the light from her stormy gray eyes, the ones I had come to love so dearly.  Her dark jeans and the black top she had constructed herself—I remembered her showing it to me, bouncing with pride—were now stained with crimson splatter, haunting reminders of a life taken too young.  The dark red line that ran across her neck held only signs of desperation, but the bruises on her body were telltale signs it was someone else's choi

Dearest Mère, This pilgrimage to grand heroics has not turned out how I had believed that it would.  I left you to become a man and leave my boyhood far behind me; oh Mère, how I wish it had not been done!  How I wish that I had remained behind with you, Père, Armand and Bea.  My long nights are spent picturing how my life could be now had I stayed – it is nearly planting season, and I worry that Armand is not yet old nor strong enough to be of proper aid to Père, that Père shall need to hire an extra hand to help him.  I know that you cannot afford such luxuries, not in such trying times as these.  If I could, I should send you my bread an

Sweet innocence Soft grace The makings of Your angel face On your memory I feast tonight Sit and watch Bright stars ignite Beauty, please Return to me Bring back love Set me free Devil eyes Devious stare Lured into your Serpent's lair On my dreams You feed tonight And as I die, dear, Hold me tight Beauty, please Return to me Bring back love Set me free Dusk's disgrace Swallows you Planets part to Let you through And as you go, I watch you leave Cold heart's shadow On your sleeve All my hopes They die tonight All so pure So pure and white Beauty, please Return to me Bring back love Set me free Sleepless