Lines On Palms


So many are the way he loves her that the realization that he does creeps up on him.

His hearts betray him as, slowly, they push the soft lilt of her voice through his veins, making sure every part of him is infused with her song.

He falls for the way the cold clings to her skin like the wet dress before it had, it makes his hands feel as though they are on fire.

Wet curls trail across his shoulder, tiny droplets of rain water softened with her scent roll over his exposed skin as he lavishes her throat with kisses he daren't waste.

Does she realize how human she makes him feel? With her skin chilled; by the storm rattling the doors of their sanctuary, and his feeling desperately flushed with heat wherever so much as her gaze wanders over him.

He wakes, hearts plump with fear slowly deflating in relief, with his wife's eyes dark hollows in this strange light, but he catches the flicker of concern filling them as she gently combs his fringe from his damp forehead.

She hovers temptingly above him, her lushous rainforest of curls falling over his face, their limbs tangled together – with a naturalness that always leaves him bereft in their absense - as she reprimands him.

Those words; marked with scorn and fear and love, and the gentleness behind her tantalizing touch soaks into him, like the beginning of Spring, thawing the chunk of black ice that in the moments of darkness expands inside of him.

Feverishly she rises into his touch with feet firm against wooden floor boards as she pushes up to meet him. Thighs quiver with anticipation and stomach muscles stretching flat as she arches her spine offering the pale flesh of her upturned breasts for his neglected mouth.

As though on a leash he is pulled in by the scent of her youth, her unyielding cries for more and his tongue wet with the chemicals of fresh love. His eyes record the nonpareil beauty of his fledgling.

He is her husband, has been through all the years that crumble under the weight of the foreboding end, she, however, is yet to make such vows. The newness of her love burns his fingers as he draws unbegotten scars, it's only a small touch, but the memory that blossoms through it reminds him how old, how alien he truly is.


Love and hate, how easily the passionate lines surrounding them blur. She loves him long before she trusts him, the way any girl's wounded heart does.

She does not give it a fancy name, dress it up as making-love, like it is for him. For her it is about learning what it is like to be loved.

If, when she is on her knees - cuffed to the railings by the console, enjoying the sound of metal clinking against metal, and his teeth scraping down the back of her neck - his body master of hers, if in a moment of weakness she thinks this is the closest approximation to love she will ever feel it is just that; a moment of weakness.

On lonely nights; when being surrounded by great dusty manuscripts feels less like heaven and more like being confined in a claustrophobic room with the aging scent of musk sinking through her clothes to rest like a thick layer of dust against her skin, she stretches out on the lawn of the meticulously maintained English Rose Garden at the back of The Luna University.

The sky is clear and weather-less unlike her mood which is murky and restless knowing that she will spend her whole night out here staring up at Planet Earth contemplating if she's only projecting the expected emotions or if they are truly hers.

Logically a psychopath cannot love, they lack the capacility, so has she spent so long pretending that she has fooled her own heart?

She could destroy him. It is an in-built desire of hers that is neatly tucked away, but has a way of rearing its ugly head at impromptu moments.

The way he flinches as she snaps her favorite horse whip against her palm and moans at the bite of leather is most adorable, as is the eager way his eyes sparkle and he makes an obvious attempt at improving his posture.

She keeps it colloquial as she commandeers his spectacle of an outfit and shimmies into her role of The Oncoming Storm. He is her release, he lets her beat him when he could so easily snatch the whip and break it across the back of her thighs in one mighty blow. That is why, she realizes, she loves him.

The twinkling skyline of New York stretches out before them untouchable behind a plate of glass. She should feel naked, as exposed as her body is to a night that whispering tales of a childhood barely lived, but on her knees with her palms and breasts pressed against the cool glass she can forget.

He holds her tight against him, anchoring her back to his chest, an arm wrapped securely around her waist as he slowly rocks them on the precipice, a hand at her throat stroking her pulse, knowing he could harm her beyond repair and that he never would.

She trusts him to chase away the shadows that cast over her in moments of weakness, to help her rally against the hopelessness, to forgive her 'always and completely' and; with history as their backdrop, to love every one of her scars.