(By the way, if you find a way, then please let me know.)
May your mind set you free
May your heart lead you on
May your mind let you be, through all disasters
May your heart lead you on
May your eyes let you see, through all disasters
May your heart lead you on
Set you free
James ~ Waltzing Along
You have a way of moving through the instants, through the flow of time, smooth and imperceptible. You have a way of sliding silently, with barely a rustle of skirts, like waves at low tide.
Just waltzing along, like the ghost of a laugh.
Today, you were sitting on the grass, lost somewhere in the gardens, legs folded beneath you, a writing tablet in your hands. The single sheet of paper atatched to it was scribbled all over, more than half the words scratched out. I will never understand why you would choose to do something that requires such meticulous attention to something as trivial as the wording of a document. I guess I just can't understand you.
And I want to, strange as it may seem.
You always made me feel somewhat inadequate. I've never met anyone who was quite so sure in her own skin, who needed so little from anyone else. I guess I always misread my feelings for you. I always thought I just admired that rightness that you always carried yourself with.
Wild, how misconceptions can change with an instant's revelation, isn't it?
Your hair was in complete disarray. Well, as complete as your disarray can be. The ends are starting to flare, and the silvery strands are haphazardly tied, level with your shoulder blades. I never thought anything you did could be haphazard. I guess it's more important that the document isn't haphazard than your hair being haphazard. And don't criticize my wording. Not all of us can be as accurate as you.
Look at me. Like you could read my thoughts. If you could, you'd be slapping me silly for my little perverted musings.
But can you blame me? Can you really blame me, when I am met with an image of something I've never seen before? It's ridiculous, but after being hidden by your long skirts all this time, your calf sliding out through the fabric of them, lying lazily on the grass... it promises wonders.
I allow myself to imagine. What a sight you'd make, draped across
a bed, legs tangled in the sheets, your head hanging over the edge, hair
cascading to the floor like in a vision of silver… Artists would weep to
capture such an image. And I would kill to see it. To be the cause of it.
I want to hear your voice fill every space like a summer storm's fragrant mist. I want to feel your hair slip between my fingers like silver cooling silk. And most of all, I want to believe that you could feel for me the many things going through my heart right now.
I used to think you'd never love anyone. You were too much in and of yourself to need affection from others. So certain, so sure, your step never falters. Why would you need anyone? Especially someone like me, with my reputation, the disgrace of my name, the wrongs you've seen me do…
It's so clichéd. Two sisters down, one to go. But to be truthful, I never even thought you would come up. It was never a possibility. You'd never need love from anyone.
Surely then, I didn't love you; I just admired that calm togetherness, that indefinable quality. You just always seem to know just who you are, and where you stand. I never did. Still don't. What could you want from me, what could I offer? You had everything, you always did.
Just one image and all my delusions come crashing down, one sight and I can admit it. I can admit I have feelings for you. Given the chance, I could- will love you.
And just maybe, you might love me too.
As I walked aimlessly through the Palace gardens, with no thought in mind, and wanting none to come, I found you. I just turned a corner, and there you were.
You were revising a royal decree for the hundredth time, looking like you hadn't slept in days. Scruffy and unkempt for once, yet still very much yourself. Your shoes were forgotten a few feet away, idle on the ground; your bare feet fidgeted on the blades of grass. You draped your hair over one shoulder, your hand trailing beneath the neck of your dress to work the kinks on the other one. Just a slight tug and my eyes met the skin of your neck, catching the odd sight:
Right were your nape meets your shoulder, under the stiff, stressed
sinew of your collar, tattooed in dark purple ink, a teardrop.
Meta-: more comprehensive: transcending metapsychology -- used with the name of a discipline to designate a new but related discipline designed to deal critically with the original one metamathematics.
Text: (1) the original words and form of a written or printed work.
Metatext: my obnoxious, pretentious way of referring to author's notes. Call me a lit-geek. Go ahead, you want to.
In thanks to Aerika-sama for reviewing the Mechanics vignettes and voicing some of my very thoughts on Escaflowne fanfiction as of late. I appreciate the encouragement *hint hint* and hope she likes this little tribute to her (and one of mine ^-^ ) favorite pairing. Yes, I have more of them in me. Hope they measure up.
And in additional thanks to my other reviewer, my reciprocal
faithful reviewer and critter friend (let's play "count the in-joke," people!):