BEAUTY IN DEATH / hq drabbles

( oikawa tooru ) forever is cast in his eyes

You might as well write poems about him, fill blank pages with word after word, all for him. He is the space between every atom, magnolia eyes filled with celestial forlorn; those hues reflect how loving him is starry night skies, kisses under lamp posts, and sweet nothings.

In the classroom, you wait for him with a nervous smile, remembering how scintilla hips joined beneath the sky; his mind isn't even on earth anymore when he smokes his last cigarette. Last night, you think about how his shaking hands mimic the unsteady beat of your heart.

And he glides in, morning dew caught up in his almond hair, droopy but soft. Your skin tingles from the love bites - you let him in again, didn't you?

He's not for you, not when he's a lazy eyed boy with honey dripping between his teeth, how sweet is that tongue which you have felt for eternity. You wonder if beneath that tongue, there is a knife. The eyes of everyone are green like laying on the forest floor, omens beyond omens when they sink into the world, the reality, that he is yours. Tears and blood fertilise the soil, the pricking of thorns when you think about sitting on the hood of his mom's car and feeling the marlboro red stuck between your teeth. When no one is looking, your eyes cry out brown like the colour of bittersweet chocolate, then bright, then white; the irises are gone.

Each time, it's a blinding feeling to be with him, like wrapping your arms around him to feel the smoothness of his chest and the low beating of his heart. It's a trust fall that happens every second, every minute, every hour. The River Styx doesn't drown you with milky white and the sadness of pearled gods, but rather, when he comes through the door, looking at you first thing in the morning, you fight to breathe when he unwittingly suffocates you.

He's a beautiful boy, isn't he? The way he unhinges your jaw with the douceur of his mouth; in spite of his cool, he dances with a moonlit smile from late night rendezvous'. Meanwhile, you feel his soft hands and think about the glow of his syrupy sunbeams, the way he catches the eye of everyone.

And he comes closer, and you can feel the edges of his brown hair tickle your cheeks and then the world crashes onto you when you feel the gilded nature of your ribcage shatter to let him feel your heart. He presses a small kiss on the top of your forehead and his thumb runs over your cheek, "Good morning, [First Name], I hope you slept well."