It was two or three at night when we met. I was a wild creature, feverish and spreading my disease remorselessly. I thought we were the same, and I followed you into the dark. You wanted to spend the night with your arms around me. I said no.

I want to go back. I'll close your eyes with my fingers and kiss them so you see a glimpse of the future. Don't let go, we only get this much time. 

and a whisper of a touch

She signals to him in the high mares' tales overhead, in the turns of phrase she has borrowed and lent, in the curled scar on his cheek; and by similar means he imagines he also signals to her: that their conversations go on, silently, in the downspin of a sycamore key. 

 - Sarah Perry, The Essex Serpent

 

Nighttime

Honestly,

If we would write books together, good ones, I would give up absolutely anything. I mean,
I'll have to keep you chained in the house,
because you drop little pieces of my heart wherever you go;
you don't pay attention.
But that should be doable, right?
For books, I mean, babies.
They'd look like the both of us. I think they'd have your passion and my mournful eyes.

"The night changes something in all of us, and the world looks different. Little details stand out which are normally hidden, and unsure of what we see, we become more guardedly fearful of what others might want. The quality of night isn't limited by time or the movement of the planets. You can carry it in your heart. There are people who live out their entire lives as though they were always in darkness."

It speaks to me

Sir William Russell Flint. Medea, Jason, Orpheus and the Hydra. 1910.

I feel like I'm made of bone dust and clay, and my heart is a wounded and desperate bird, launching itself against the inside of my chest, over and over again. I want out.  

I thought I sacrificed only my happiness for someone else's, but now he has it, and there is nothing left of me. 

Just words. Hi weird girl. I promise I won't make you give it up. This is just how I am. I love you. It's wrong because it makes you happy. 

At least I have written. As a hated child I never expected to be wanted, but hoped to write. So I know stories - I felt it in March, the joy was too great; it would steal from my future.