Golden hour
somewhere on sunny sunday, in the lingering past and an impossible future.
i hold you.
we sway slowly like foxtails in the breeze.
you’re a day-dream as warm as golden hours glow, that I know soon fades to dusk.
it’s nothing more than a projection of my fantasies on a tattered movie screen.
i hear your sigh as the reels click, i feel the warmth of your breath against my collarbone. i clench the loose fabric in my fingers holding your waist to mine. i look to your eyes but i can only see your lips, you shush me with the restraint i once had.
i know it’s almost time, I know it’s almost time, can I please have more time?
. . .
I know better.
the amber glow recedes, twilight proceeds and I’m left with the truth.
I leave the windows open but close the blinds. the wind rattles the slats; the faintest
-click-
-click-
-click-
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Sirius, James, and Barty would all take photos is someone left their phone unattended
Remus, regulus, and Evan would have millions of photos from when they left their phones with them.
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“There's more to it than you're telling.”
“There's always more.”
prints available on my society6
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