#7: half-full/half-empty

she brews a jug of black death, its fumes lazily curling around her in an embrace. outside, it is a stretch of endless white, pale, pure, pristine, unmarred. wait for the morning, he says last night as his arms encircle her waist, pressing kisses against the nape of her neck. wait for the morning, wait when all the whiteness turns to grey, black, kissing the asphalt, returning to oneness, calling others to join them. even if they fail, today, they will do it tomorrow. she remembers the way she frowns, the pressure of her eyebrows knitting together in anxiety. he laughs. it is easier to ignore their songs when you have known them for your entire life. after a while, they get bored, they vanish as quickly as they come, and it starts all over again, in whiteness. now go to bed. she presses her fingers against the china mug, sipping away. she smiles at that memory, warm in the knowledge that he sleeps upstairs, far away from those siren calls, perhaps until dawn, when his footfalls will trail his solid frame, his lips against her forehead, sleepily whispering good morning, you have been thinking a lot again, haven’t you.

About Tony the Octopus

I move from tanks to tanks, oceans to oceans, and am not related to Paul.
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