like vines.

(as found in Offbeat: Volume 10: Noises from Typewriter Keys)
it was three am. her eyelashes fluttered into a suddenly-wide stare. a creak was heard beneath her feet.

slowly she moved out of and away from her room. one foot in front of the other, she conquered the ancient stairway and groaning floorboards masterfully. the house was nothing like she'd ever known: it was quiet, with intricate details and deliberate patterns twisting like vines about the walls, doors, and ceilings. the furniture was dusty and worn, there were no soft carpets to lay a foot on, and yet still, it was home.

peacefully he slept, a portrait of serenity with his soft brown hair that curled at the edges. one arm was thrust over his features - over his hidden eyes and sunburnt lips - and lay limp against the armrest of the old sofa.

she watched his chest rise and fall for a moment, her own breath stolen by the sight. it had been far too long since she'd touched that skin or tousled that hair or brushed those lips with her own and the urge overcame her like a violent wave.

soon she was at his side, kneeling, of course. her delicate fingers trembled as she reached to brush a tendril from his unknowing forehead. the face was so familiar - the asymmetrical wrinkle that graced his brow, the forty-something freckles that danced across the bridge of his nose, the dark eyebrows that peaked and arched midway to create a constantly amused expression.

as she lay her lips against his, he stirred, mumbling inaudible phrases from exhausted vocals. his own eyes revealed, he found his hands, found his strength, and found his voice, "who's there?"

but he found himself alone.

---

(a continuation not-yet-published)
"hello?" he said, to no one.

momentarily, he was frightened. he had been dreaming again. he sat up quickly, throwing both bare feet to the cold floor and shoving the ancient quilt to the opposite end of the couch. a warm breath escaped him as he struggled for balance and fought to stand.

as he walked the perimeter of the room, his senses caught a floral scent - faint, but familiar. there was warmth, excitement, intrigue flooding through him. the old house had character, he knew, but seldom was there life.

thomas knelt beside the banister of the old stairwell. his hand traced the aged wood - etched beautifully with subtle intricacies. he was searching for some sign of contact - something purely.. alive.. that he could grasp onto. his brow furrowed when he found nothing. outside, the wind whistled a deliberate tune.

autumn was both his favorite and loneliest time of the year. the colors that cascaded through the trees and the smell of dead leaves and wood-burning stoves brought him back to a less senseless time. things had been different so many autumns ago, and he missed her even now.