damnitarmand:

Send “slurred words” to hear my muse describe yours whilst ridiculously drunk.

So many associate you with flames, with fire and the quick-spark flash of your temper when you are wounded deeply. I remember you like the sound and sensation of Paris rain; the way that it maps itself over stained glass and air-spun spires and seeps into every possible crevice, marking even stone in its passing. It turns the bare bones of a city lost in time into a thing of wonder, hidden amongst the tendrils of fog so that only a few may pass through it without becoming lost. That is you, a secretive kingdom unto yourself that others cannot resist trying to explore, trying to understand. By your very nature, you change everything around you. You are as inevitable as that rainfall and you will not be denied. The maddening part about it is that you are rarely conscious of it. So few divine the strings of your mysterious code that some doubt that you are ever to be moved.

I know differently. I know something of the grace and rage and determination that you possess, enough to know that I should never have tried to hold it and keep it for my own. You ran through my fingers like water whenever I tried too hard to grasp you. These hands are not hands that could contain you or touch you as you were really meant to be touched, and they never should have tried.