“I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, ”
“Oh,” The word sits lamely on her lips, crippled by frost, uncertainty and lingering crystals of salted sweat that have turned to flakes of diamond ice. The sound of it itches on her skin and bits of her feel like sloughing off. All the other things she wants to say burn and burn and burn.
Every part of her burns again when she looks at him and her lungs listen to the melody of his body and that veil of breath parts suddenly as if they are two different universes that circle around and around again. Isra feels like bits of flesh, thin as charred paper hanging from winter-dead tree branches. She feels as light as a spectral thing, tendrils of fog that live only when, only when---
Only when he inhales.
“I am,” She says and again the words feel lame on her lips. Part of her wonders and part of her has already forgotten what it is she feels when she looks at him between the curtains of snow and heat. The thoughts drift away from her like tender-snowflakes on a blizzard torrent of wind.
Something deep down, past the fear of anything but solitude wonders if he might catch those shards of her like falling stars. She wonders if he might wish (and what he would wish) if he caught all the pieces of her that feel so very far away from her bone and flesh.
And then, oh then! He's a flame once more, licking all the cool ocean fire of her. His flames turn to words, then meaning. She feels the flare of something that feels like a supernova on the parts of her that still feel as frozen as the snow beneath their hooves. It takes a moment for her to blink (and see a flash of moonlight) to make sense of the words.
No one has ever asked to touch her before. They only took and took and took and she trembles for the kindness of his fire that feels like it creates instead of consumes.
Please, she begs in thoughts for her lips feel frozen with fear and longing and surely she thinks she would sob if she made any sound in the 'real'. The word echoes like a mantra of religion in her head, one of snow and fire and want. Her knees feel like liquid and her flesh still itches with the fire beneath. Other parts of her feel like webs of fragile paper for him to write upon.
Though for all the fire inside her she doesn't open her eyes as she trembles beside him and waits to see if his touch will devour or recreate her.
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