the slow art of breathing bitter

Burning Muse

It's 2:41 a.m., and Charles feels so cold.

This, to him, is the most dangerous hour—

Subtle but crisp, filled with giddy afternoon kisses,

a feather of fevered closeness, a gentle moan of love.

But today, there's an unwavering shockwave of faint breaths 

lingering in the thin air, shaping her name.

"Cora, Cora, Cora!"

He wanted to taste the first summer snow on her lips.

He wished to acid her bones with cyanic love.

He desired to run miles and catch her up,

and bring her back home.

She used to taste passion then

and he of something never-known.

But now, they mostly taste woe

early in the morning.

They dream of ragged hearts and spellbound tales

of weeping angels and howling demons.

The taste of their mistakes lingers on their tongues—

How things spin around and around

until the last touch burns

everything.

Her name burns his bones near death.

The tender lights thicken the fog on the glass.

Their passion stumbled in the dark

until someone yanked one of them back, and they fell.

He wished they could happen at least once.

He wished the breeze could whistle a raw

hymn of devoured love.

Little did he know,

Desires never approve of love.

Suns rise and fall, 

Stars spark and die,

Moons blush and rot—

but never love (it just doesn't happen to them)

Never Charlie and Cora.

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A/N: Do the little vote buttons, too, don't happen? I wish they did...