╠ NEON REQUIEM ╣╠ I N B O X ╣

[droppingin]

ᒪᕮᗩᐯᕮ ᗩ ᗰᕮSSᗩGᕮ
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A hand delivered Val-O-Gram

[mrpoetry]

[Early in the month, before the water is tainted, before she moves out, when things are still tense and too quiet but she yet sleeps at his place, Ada will wake to a surprise on bedside table. A single, deep blue orchid lies across a glossy, matching box of assorted chocolate truffles. Tucked under the flower is is a piece of cardstock long enough to be a bookmark on which V has written a poem by John Keats.]

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art —
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —
No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair lover’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.

[It's handwritten in plain but exacting calligraphy. On closer inspection, however, the 'r' in lover doesn't quite match, squeezed in afterward.]

[droppingin]

[ It says a lot of things about her that Ada manages to sleep in, consistently, in a bed not her own, in someone else's home, even if it's temporarily just a little bit hers... Says a lot of things about whose bed it is, and whose home, too.

But none of those things are spoken aloud. They're written in poetry, occasionally passed in gifts, more often in smaller, greedy touches, in moments so quiet she barely breathes.

Her steps are near silent as she slides out of bed, slides the poem carefully between the box and the flower as if undisturbed at all, as if she didn't read it four times over, each more slowly than the last, and, still clad in nothing but an over-large tee-shirt and little else, roams out in search of her quarry.

Whatever may be occupying him, even if he should notice her approach, she wraps her arms around him from behind and lays her head against his back. Her silence feels revealing, but she doesn't trust herself to speak.

It could be just another afternoon morning, if she believes it hard enough. ]

[mrpoetry]

[V, having slipped from their -- his? -- bed only to exchange it for a perch on an antique love seat with claw feet and a stuffy, floral print upholstery, lets his morning paper droop into his lap, head turning slightly in Ada's direction as her arms wrap him up close.

Her warmth is welcome, comfortable and a little too arresting, and he reaches up to lay his palm across the back of hers in wordless appreciation for the gesture, appreciation for the familiarity of her weight against his back. Without meaning to, he breathes in her nearness and exhales his cares.]

I'm glad you liked it, [is his bare whisper, his palm scuffing across the back of her hand twice before long fingers curl inward to clasp her hand against his chest, wheedle his thumb in to stroke her palm. He tips back against her, just enough to be felt.]