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Back to "the difference has blurred" 2. story-part

Back to "from Isabelle to you" 3. story-part

Back to "turning fluid, oily and tar black, seeping through all the cracks" 4. story-part

Back to the interlude; take your stormy weather along

Eventually, I say, or we both say, like voices chiming between layers. And you're holding the little pink box while my fingers stray through your hair, imagining their wealth of glitter against sunshine. The box goes up, goes down, takes a spin in your hands. You giggle and laugh timidly. There is one, single crystal button in front, though of plastic, but that doesn't bother you. And a top lid, so you can store two sets of secrets, two dreams, two smiles. I tell you that you can put your heart into the very box itself, I'll simply rest in the fine spirals on the lid, like a protective spell. An omen, warning trespassers of your amazing beauty. How gorgeous you are.

You're bursting into full blown laughter and bending over, but my smile stays gingerly calm. Like a figure from your otherworldy charms, like the silver dove hanging from your bracelet, decorated by sparkly stones. You laugh, but I bow down and grab your shaking body, clutching you to me. Now, you realize my emotion, so different from your easy breath, your light dance. You realize my intent, the sharp, piercing smell of dragon scales, burnt wood and torrid fumes. The smell of waking up on the forest floor, wet from rain. My footsteps in the morning hours, circling your bed. Another whisper of a forgotten voice, as I believe you will forget me. As you envision my horror at fleeting from your touch, maybe not tomorrow, but at least some coming morning, you grasp me with slender hands.

I hear the box falling from your embrace, sliding and spiralling down to the floor. An idle sound, no louder noise past the murmur of your lips moving before my eyes. And the kind softness vibrating in my ears as you tuck me in behind your heart.

Forward to "the dreams that should have died" 6. story-part