Breath comes easier. That doesn’t mean she’s itching to spend it on another pointless, circuitous little bout. If she’s itching at anything, it’s too damn deep to do aught about. Wren only knows one way to scratch a lung.
"Thank you," Ragged. She waits for a pause in the working, cautious not to disrupt, tries to find a way to say it. To say what? It doesn’t need to be said. These aren’t the ears to listen; not a tongue with anything worth speaking.
"Passion," Another breath, shuddering. "Would that I could give you mine."
Her head lolls. She doesn’t want it to — can’t help it. There's something wet in her voice now, and it isn't just the blood.
no subject
Breath comes easier. That doesn’t mean she’s itching to spend it on another pointless, circuitous little bout. If she’s itching at anything, it’s too damn deep to do aught about. Wren only knows one way to scratch a lung.
"Thank you," Ragged. She waits for a pause in the working, cautious not to disrupt, tries to find a way to say it. To say what? It doesn’t need to be said. These aren’t the ears to listen; not a tongue with anything worth speaking.
"Passion," Another breath, shuddering. "Would that I could give you mine."
Her head lolls. She doesn’t want it to — can’t help it. There's something wet in her voice now, and it isn't just the blood.
"I promised you could take something back."