And now he's crying, or near to it, fragile and lonely and . It's strange how hearts echo and resound, tied together as tightly as mine is to his. Pain and fear and those dreams, always the dreams in the moments unexpected. I know in my soul the moment when home-any-time becomes should-have-been-here, because the dreams come, then, waking dreams that he is gone and gone forever, nightmares that rip me and tear me with fear until I can see him, hear him, know that he's there, he's safe, he's okay. It's strange how I know what is said in the silent spaces between our eyes, how I can take the flicker of a lash and find therein comfort and hope.
It is a binding of deep purple, dreampurple, a spidersweb of smoke and steel, shadow and velvet, a lacework that has caught me and held me and made me know, made me feel what it is to truly be. I am a Pinnochio at times, a Galatea, an unreal and hollow shell that is given life by his presence, made real. And still I do not understand how these hearts and souls can be so interwoven that his tears are unlike any other, salt and fire on my lips and my breath, how I can go to kiss them away and feel as if I am drawn in that moment into an infinite pool of sadness, so strong and so overwhelming that I am lost and spun around. It is the dreampurple, and I am the midnight-tressed maiden, with the blade bound ever into my hair, the blade whose edges are sharp as words and bright as the candles in my eyes.
It is the deep purple, the dreampurple, this smoke and silence and the binding that is stronger than blood, stronger than love, stronger than life and the dreams that ever plague me. And it is fuelled by his tears and sparked by his smiles, so real - so much real-er than I can ever hope to be - that I am a plaything to its whim, to the eversummer green in his eyes. There is something about him that is proof even against the sharpest of the blades that seem inevitably drawn to my hands, something that can send the candles kindling to flame and cast the raven wheeling defiance away like so much wheat chaff in the hands of the wind. There is a look in his eyes, a touch to his lips that can defuse the deepest anger that simmers in my soul, cut away my pride and arrogance. There is something to him that is more, and it is the dreampurple between us.
Why do I not look you in the eyes when we are fighting - why do I stalk away and scream? Because you hold my chains in your eyes, those comet-cold links that span the empty spaces between us, the never-close-enough. You hold my bond, my parole, my dreams and my ambitions by your very gifting them to me; and I cannot forget that - cannot ignore it - I cannot blind myself to the liberating knowledge that your love for me encompasses even my flights of fury. And my sins and my vices cannot stand in the face of that. I do not think that anything could.
Don't cry, my love, don't weep for the wounds of might-be and must. It is only evening, only that melancholy which sweeps me away and will not let me go. It is only that, and it will pass - it has passed - the balm for all my wounds and my sorrows is in your eyes and in your arms. It is all I need.