Summer came like cinnamon, so sweet.

Ben Whishaw (:

My lovaloviedover.

_________

Lost lovers with sad grins on their lips. Their fingers locked on their own, silently weeping, aching for the warmth of the other. Hands on the curve of her seashell ears, grazing down her silky cheek, wet with tears of regret. His eyes were glinting with the sheen of the sun, the black eating up the rest of the white. For a subtle moment, he appeared to be a grotesque creature, intentions too profound and brutal to envision.

Her thin arms were emaciated, shrunken, withering away like a brittle leaf on an autumn's day. She could no longer abide the contemplation of being as one. Tolerance ran dry and thin, patience and forebearance being the only limit she gave to herself. Angered heartbeats drummed in her chest. She was just watching, waiting.

The pencil smears on his hands drew an ugly smudged line down her face, accentuating the unsightly grimace plastered on her lips. A hand from nowhere flew past his eyes, the red mark of her hand on his cheek. An embarrassment, yet he still held her face so gently, so dear. Questions in his eyes, a longing gaze, almost as if to kiss the answer from her lips.

"Do you still love me?" she asked, challenging his look.

Her lips were pursed, but her fingers were quivering, a little shiver, but he noticed. He sat back and leaned on the seat, his tongue rolling the answer in his mouth. His head lolled to the side, and he sat there like a statue of a god, his eyes on hers.

Silently, he stood up and reached his body forward, his lips to her yearning ears.

“Without question, my love.”

Nicole (: