"ma vie."

he would whisper to your ear. sit with you for hours. trace the lines along your palm, the constellations along your back, counting each birthmark along your sides. like streets and stars in a city made of you; all leading him back home, mon cœur.

how can he describe his life to you? he thinks a lot, listens to hymns at the nearby opera whilst he sat on his bicycle. he's fond of flowers. especially the ones tucked behind your ear on the 25th of june. he feels a lot the day we danced in the pub.

the bane of his existence, the object of his desires, thank you. i love you. stay. should we? can we? for how long? is forever too long? too short, he thought.

we stepped foot on the train station. hand in hand. his heart in his stomach. but charles smiled for he could not burden you the dread stirring within him, the fear of longing he would feel the moment he let go to uphold his duty as a soldier, as a pilot to fight in this great war.

nearing the bustling wagon, steam all over, he stops, driving you closer with a gentle pull of your arm like a slow dance with you until our chest is pressed. our breaths joins. our hearts shares their warmth. his lips on your skin.

"think about it.." he murmurs against your hair, finger tracing each strand a million times over, caving you in with his body, embracing you with his soul, "when the war is over, we'll get married and the earth will grow flowers like you, and your womb will carry the most beautiful girl in the universe."