DurAnorak (duranorak) wrote,

Writing, from a character. Just because.


Evening, now. The sun still glittering through the trees.
He lies there framed in white, little flakes melting clear on his pale skin, still just warm enough. The red at his lips is striking, startling, so that I glance around briefly, ensuring no-one is watching but the birds, who will report this story indecipherable as any other they tell.
It is very cold, of course, but I will see this out. I kneel beside him, the snow soaking through my jeans, almost unnoticed. While it drifts in to cover the rest of him, my gloved hands brush the white crystals from his face time and time again. I knew it would settle today.
The snow is melting on contact no longer, and though I cannot take off my gloves to touch him, I know he is cold, now. Almost covered - and so quickly, too. In keeping his face clear I have streaked the blood from his lips across his cheek, and I can hear a small part of me screaming to see it; another small part wanting a camera to take in his perfection.
The rest of him lies buried, now. In the morning, I will take care of things properly, but for tonight I sit back and let the snow float onto his lips, his eyelids, his cheeks, his forehead, and blanket in pure white the most precious thing I have ever owned.


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