Melancholy ( n. )
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Melancholy holds in her keeping, a repertoire of  tools which are divulged in both the proper amount, as well as the proper timing.

For timing is crucial, in obtaining a most idealistic outcome.

Each will, ultimately, become another beautiful thread, in her elusively intricate tapestry : to aid in the way which she slithers around the lives of all, consuming their joy and keeping their tragedies at bay.

An elaborate cloak, both deceptively nurturing, and contemplatively benign. 

Though, make no mistake : femininity is neither thread, nor tool.

For she, is an artform : and personally, a most cherished friend.

Companion, in the illustration of her serpentine masterpiece.

Found first, in a time when melancholy thought it was better to be docile, to remain subtle and demure, as pertaining to your essence.

She helped you to realize, that there was another way : to give that smile, to bow with grace, in corseted, constrained gown.

But to always keep the knife, underneath that gown. To keep that smile tact, and sharpened like blades. To be the beautiful serpent, ready to strike, whenever the moment may call for it : and even when it doesn’t.

A formidable guide, in the self realization of your own strength.

It’s only fair, that you help to return the favor.

❝ You could have knocked. ❞

Shuddering verse, gives only a semblance to the depths for which abysmal subconscious resided, upon the point of his intrusion.

Perceptive visage seems hazed over by something, which remains unknown until the point where subtle gaze is turned, to fixated reflection in the mirror : olden scar lays horizontally along her abdomen, and as a singular digit grazes the marred flesh, junoesque form gives but a waning tremble.

Tragic, beautiful Ophelia.

He took your vibrance, your youth, your flower : and bludgeoned it to something wretched. something cruel, corrupt to the point for which their could be no recovery. Not for the likes of you.

It was, an inevitable end.

But never would it have been theorized, to come undone at your own father’s hand.

You could allow it to fade, if you wanted to. but to forget, would be to allow the possibility of its occurrence once more : and that simply could not come to pass. for wisdom has now come to your side, as a most revered, constant companion.

Cosmic monarch, is seemingly lost in the nostalgia, when she snaps back to the face of reality, and gives remorsefully pained smile. a moment longer, as the silken robe wraps loosely around slender physique, her charming facade returns.

A different facet, to elusively intricate design.

❝ Is there something you needed of me, dear ? ❞

heartofrevolutions

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           ∟He spends the next few moments with his back leaned against the door after he’s returned, and his gaze shifts across the room, leaving the  sleeping Melancholy. The smile on his face eventually fades, and he lets out a quiet sigh, the curiosity of what she could be holding still faintly tugging at him. 

When he looks back down at her, he notices her movement, and he’s suddenly concerned that he might’ve woken her. There is a tense moment as he waits to see if she has left her slumber; it seems as though she hasn’t. 

He relaxes slightly, noticing the button that rested against Melancholy’s palm, and an expression of marked confusion ripples through his features, settling on his face as he realizes that he’s seen it somewhere before. Familiarity, he’s used that button before— — Oh

And as he looks down at the jacket he’s been wearing, a revelation { perhaps a bit too dramatic in word choice } reaches him as he realizes, A button fell off my jacket. Shame

The smallest of smiles returns to his face, and the look of confusion is completely replaced by a hesitant and faint smile. 

He feels … assured and somehow safe.

Who knows what her reaction would have been to such a smile, if she’d been awake at the time it graced her presence : yet knowing such genuine motion was rare in itself from the disorderly entity, melancholic matriarch would have likely cherished it, all the more.

It’s not long, before his aura presses heavy weight, upon a waning form : for a few brief moments, the only way to describe such a feeling as one experienced, was something akin to suffocation.

Her breath becomes distorted, before dainty palm ferociously curls around the button once more, and perceptive blues force open : with a gasp.

And much to her surprise, subconscious feigns not, the envision of his brooding form. A weary smile, and pallid lips nearly croak out their intrusion upon the silence.

❝ You came back. ❞

It doesn’t come out, as intended.

Less of an inquiry, more as relieved : blissfully so.  

You came back, to me.

When I didn’t deserve it. 

❝ haven’t been asleep too long, have I? ❞

She’s never made it a habit, for sleeping in intervals of more than a few hours. There’s a very subtle, almost untraceable hint of hopelessness, with the spilled verse.

An infamous insomniac, indeed.

Hand begins to go numb, as last words are scrawled upon parchment.

They’re nowhere near as orderly, as the first letter sent.

Nor is it as affluent, or precise.

They’re scrawled in disorderly penmanship, as vision fades in and out of clarity : the vessel only has so much longer left, before giving into the disease of melancholia as fated : and though all of this reigns clear, the blatant sentiment, is most apparent.

Why spare formalities, if they’d all come to see her dead soon, anywho?

In truth, she never should have stayed as long as she had, knowing the inevitable would occur, as his mortal life would not grant him as her immortal design would.

But such could not be taken back, now.

Not that she would, if given the choice. 

Rameses,

This is the last letter I shall send.

And even it, I’m afraid, shall have a longer journey remaining before it, in order to reach you, than I have on this Earth.

Forgive me, for not being able to stay longer.

Forgive me, for leaving you.

It was never my intent, to do so.

                         Goodbye, my sweet.

With all my love,

Ophelia.  

She dotes a withering smile, upon faithful servant, as the letter is rolled into scroll and placed into aging palm.

Eyelids become heavier by the moment, and with a last “with haste, dear.” does the royal advisor send her off.

Selfish nature, has her wish he might make it, in time to say goodbye.

Logical counterpart, knows better.

I'll see you again someday, Pharaoh.

A final look of fondness : she never does get to hear the scream of maidens, whom come across her corporeal form.

Back to the wretched waters, be where she now rests.

don't leave me

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Ah, that’s right.

He can feel your despair, now.

That’s part of what comes with the intertwining, of two beings into one. As you feel all of his woes and triumphs, sweet wolf in turn, absorbs the same, which dwells inside you.

An inevitable outcome.

Her fleeting nature often did its’ best, to consume all subconscious thought : and while ophelia can choose what to cloak from his line of sight, about her aura, there are things which slip through the cracks, every now and then.

This unshakable, deeply rooted fear, being one of them.

Unable to turn towards his countenance, verse spills from a taunt mouth, giving little way in the possibility of her expression, whilst speaking. 

❝ I”m not going to leave, darling.❞

I couldn’t.

Not even if that was my wish.

You know too much, and I need you.

arottenwolf

Dear O,

                I’ve an inquiry of doltish structure to propose, but for what reason in the poem rose are reds, are violets considered blue?

                                                                     xo

                                                                             Adam.

            P.S - What did the wolf say when someone stepped on his foot? 

Receiving letters, holds a particular fondness for her.

Even more so, when they bring forth genuine amusement.

Coeur,

Think not of the logic behind calling violets blue, but rather, what sounds more pleasing to thine ear : roses are red, violets are blue, or roses are red, violets are indigo. It’ll make more sense, once you have your answer.

I can only hope.

Ophelia.

( p.s do i dare inquire )

He’s left : And not to say that she blames him.

But the sinking feeling left, in the pit of her stomach as disorderly essence leaves the vicinity, summons a self loathing which was hardly paralleled, within nostalgic being. She’s accepted, that this feeling is deserved.

Though it’s no less abhorred, at the recognition. Pallid blues grow heavier , as waning form remains plastered against the hardwood floor : Before deciding to rest her eyes.

Closing, closing, closing more, there’s something which catches her gaze, right before drifting away, that beckons her attention.

 Holding it to her chest as if it were a buoy within the raging sea, a singular button doth be revealed, against unraveling digits.

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She takes stride, few and swift, to place her palm against his bared chest. Allowing herself to soak him in, retracing each chiseled line and dip with a fondness : and wavering smile. His tone becomes dominance, yet his eyes… are pleading.

Ophelia feels a distinct pleasure, at knowing how few were allowed the intimacy of this exposure. A moment longer, and whispering verse is spilled from rosy petals. Though words speak with demure disposition, gaze remains ever self assured : almost reassuring.

Is that an order, commodore. ❞

There is no question to seeming inquiry : no mischief, amiss pallid blues. Only a shallow breath between two bodies, as the hand slips away, and the chill of her forehead presses against that of opposing, radiating warmth.

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He had come back for her.

It was only right to remain, at his request, then.

I'm not going anywhere. ❞  

You woke up to an empty bed.

Normally, this isn’t something which leaves a chill to rest within your bones : for it’s far too common of an occurrence, for it to be anything other than comfortably familiar.

Yet as slender palms coincides with the empty grooves beside you, which lose their heat, and lingering scent of cologne : you cannot help but notice the sinking optimism of your disposition.

A number of variables race in your head, but the one which rings most likely, is this : perhaps he’s gone to work early, to finish some of that paperwork. You’d surprise him with breakfast, because goodness knows if he was in a rush, sustenance was the last thing on his train of conscious thought.

So out of bed you go, getting dressed and out the door : downtown to the little cafe to pick up some fresh bagels and brewed coffee, with that eerie feeling tingling down your slender spine, though for goodness knows what. You can hardly put your tongue to it.

Except you can.

It’s why you left the abode in such a hurry, quite uncustomary to how you normally do things. What was the sense in rushing if you knew he’d be at work, anywho. Why stop to get breakfast for him if he didn’t even bother to leave with even a kiss goodbye.

You should be furious.

On any other day, you would be.

But you know this isn’t like most days : you felt it in your gut from the moment pallid blues gaze upon the imprint he left upon shared mattress. Something is terribly wrong.

And though you know this, you just have to go to the office and reconfirm it. Because you need the solid validation, that it’s true : no matter how much evidence in the air you can feel, that emptiness not only between satin sheets, but in your very bones.

So with lithe form and fervent steps, you reach the medical practice : making your first stop at the receptionists desk to inquire about a possible early arrival.

She tells you that your husband was already inside, and scrambling around his office upon her arrival : that when he noticed she was there, he asked to divulge the location of a note for Miss Orwell.

Noting specifically, that he seemed a bit troubled : and far too formal that his charmingly polite disposition.

The truth is inevitable.

Do you dare venture forth?

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