She plays at being a nun, always a tart, once a vicar. She wears dog-collars and disguises and lies and when she shoots, she shoots first. --
1. It's Tuesday half eleven in the dark when the Doctor forgets forever another secondary storyline to his own and grabs the woman beside him, still sobbing, into The Past when feeling is first, and kisses meant less than sex-pollen.
Amy holds on, not because she knows how, and not because she doesn't know how not to, but because feeling is electric and if she could keep pace with a nuclear generator why the fuck wouldn't she?
2. Time loops and time knots. Time Lords govern eddies, slices. Not the pool of slowly lived stories, slowly lived lives across slowly tilting planets. He is too old, she is too young. They can only run along young lives quick with the beat of revolution, the warmth of a thousand hearts singing songs of freedom, a thousand wrongs to be resisted, a thousand lovers and loves. They warm each other on wet cobblestones, on windy shores of methyl fjords, in tight cold little rooms hidden in sinking photofine steel barges. The heat of their foreheads and finger tips mingling, smelling the smell of burnt up busted up placards in each other's hair. When they leave, they leave young lives ticking day by day to mediocrity, tired lives living delayed victory one lost day to the next. They leave the future, and living it. They leave and return to now.
3. "You are so young. You were so magnificent once." Amy sees firsts and lasts. Amy sees him seeing beginnings and endings. She sees him raw, she feels him taunt with the effort of forgetting, she keeps his forgottens. She remembers herself, forgets him. He grabs tighter, and she pulls them both away.
4. She tingles in surges. She refuses to be the better half. She explodes sociopathic the girl who got left behind in an English village with not even the post office open on Sundays. She can't complete others without her own completion, mismatched shards of the wrong fairy story. Her peace of mind an itchy scratchy many-edged beast in foggy dream time. She cannot complete her own story.
-- She lied at being a nun, a tart, a vicar. When she shot, she shot first. She shot.
no subject
--
1.
It's Tuesday half eleven in the dark when the Doctor forgets forever another secondary storyline to his own and grabs the woman beside him, still sobbing, into The Past when feeling is first, and kisses meant less than sex-pollen.
Amy holds on, not because she knows how, and not because she doesn't know how not to, but because feeling is electric and if she could keep pace with a nuclear generator why the fuck wouldn't she?
2.
Time loops and time knots. Time Lords govern eddies, slices. Not the pool of slowly lived stories, slowly lived lives across slowly tilting planets. He is too old, she is too young. They can only run along young lives quick with the beat of revolution, the warmth of a thousand hearts singing songs of freedom, a thousand wrongs to be resisted, a thousand lovers and loves. They warm each other on wet cobblestones, on windy shores of methyl fjords, in tight cold little rooms hidden in sinking photofine steel barges. The heat of their foreheads and finger tips mingling, smelling the smell of burnt up busted up placards in each other's hair. When they leave, they leave young lives ticking day by day to mediocrity, tired lives living delayed victory one lost day to the next. They leave the future, and living it. They leave and return to now.
3.
"You are so young. You were so magnificent once." Amy sees firsts and lasts. Amy sees him seeing beginnings and endings. She sees him raw, she feels him taunt with the effort of forgetting, she keeps his forgottens. She remembers herself, forgets him. He grabs tighter, and she pulls them both away.
4.
She tingles in surges. She refuses to be the better half. She explodes sociopathic the girl who got left behind in an English village with not even the post office open on Sundays. She can't complete others without her own completion, mismatched shards of the wrong fairy story. Her peace of mind an itchy scratchy many-edged beast in foggy dream time. She cannot complete her own story.
--
She lied at being a nun, a tart, a vicar. When she shot, she shot first. She shot.