She knew he was quickened by her presence. The dreams were an indication of this. She knew, though. She fucking knew. Their emotional shorthand was too highly developed, across the years. Her smile was often barely skin deep, never making her emerald gaze. He wanted to kiss away that pain, every time. Being unable to touch her face, stroke her mane of raven hair or kiss those oily lips was a vivisection. He’d been handed a glimpse of what could’ve been, only to have it snatched away by their disparate fates; interminably orbiting each other never to fully intersect. He could almost laugh at the cruel simplicity of it.
Darkgingerbread 