But our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we - Of many far wiser than we-
Ariane doesn't bleed, but part of her thinks she should. It'd be so easy. She could just peel off a bandage, and pick at a scab, and maybe she'd finally understand what went so wrong.
It's a beautiful poem. The sound of the waves slow, to match the man in black's cadence, and when he finishes, the tide recedes. Now it's just the two of them, and the sand, and the blood, and the reminder that they have to breathe. At least the man in black can tell a joke. Ariane smiles and laughs a little, if that sandpaper-thin sound can be called a laugh.
"It's all right. I don't mind. That was a beautiful poem." To show she doesn't mind, she unwinds her scarf and offers it out. "Here. I have more bandages at the hotel."
She's still thinking about the poem as the man in black gets cleaned up, or stares off into the desert, or does whatever he needs to do. "Of course the angels wanted to take her. Things like that - perfect things - they don't understand. I imagine they could never love the way the poet loves."
cw: bleeding from the face
Ariane doesn't bleed, but part of her thinks she should. It'd be so easy. She could just peel off a bandage, and pick at a scab, and maybe she'd finally understand what went so wrong.
It's a beautiful poem. The sound of the waves slow, to match the man in black's cadence, and when he finishes, the tide recedes. Now it's just the two of them, and the sand, and the blood, and the reminder that they have to breathe. At least the man in black can tell a joke. Ariane smiles and laughs a little, if that sandpaper-thin sound can be called a laugh.
"It's all right. I don't mind. That was a beautiful poem." To show she doesn't mind, she unwinds her scarf and offers it out. "Here. I have more bandages at the hotel."
She's still thinking about the poem as the man in black gets cleaned up, or stares off into the desert, or does whatever he needs to do. "Of course the angels wanted to take her. Things like that - perfect things - they don't understand. I imagine they could never love the way the poet loves."