There was something about his eyes that I was never quite sure about.
Everything else riddled with eternal love. His soft hands, his warm voice, the penetrating words that tickled under my skin, his red lips and breathing - the way his chest moved gently through each sigh, the way it rose and settled back again. Every word he said, or rather, everything he didn’t say, he needed only touch to find and consume all of my being. I was his, he knew it. And I felt forcefully weak.
But there was something about his eyes that made everything else a cold, vacant blur; the kind of look worn behind a thousand year old mask, repeatedly broken and sewn up again.
He looked into me, his gaze searing through my soul, searching for the common traces of his taking;
" the varied ways in which I conquered the world."
He was never mine to keep, and for the first time, I surrendered to that fact. He searched, but he no longer found me as his prize. I felt he had given up. There was no longer a fire, the dragon was buried beneath the wind, and all that remained was a lifeless memory of all the longing we had held, the memories we dreamt of renewing, against so much change.
" I love you," I whispered, " I always will,
- whatever that means.”