one day we'll go back.

and carve our names;
let our existance be known.
This is our sanctuary,
Our home, our world.
It belongs to us.
Regardless of the ground from which it sprung,
In spite of the sun that reaches its shade.
Our love has encased Haven from rains that follow.
its creator-the earth.
Your submission under me conquered its terrain.
I’ve destroyed lips that warrant worship.
scarred knees, quaint as the clouds.
filled your body, to vanquish that thirst.
a thirst for slavery.
you are mine.
And this ours.

I come inside her, we lay on our bed of blankets and grass. the body heat dissipating and the cold creeping in. I hold her.
she looks into my begging eyes,
"there is this world,"
and my hand trails to the echoes of civilization,
"and then there is that world."
her eyes follow the direction, the words are picked up by a breeze of trangression.
"this is my domain. here, now, with you at my side. it is Being. but, see,
you belong to both places-and not simultaneously.I have been cast out from the simple act of exhaling. everything that has become you is rooted in that world. I cannot take you from which you grow. you will be left to stagnate and starve, with me as your witness. you've known this, always. though you act as if this polarity is of no importance-that our fractured meetings in time are sewn together, seamlessly."
her nose nestles into the valley of my chest. my hands are cold, and my heart fights to be nearer.

Francon.

"Roark, I can accept anything, except what seems to be the easiest for most people: the halfway, the almost, the just about, the in-between. They may have their justifications. I don't know. I don't care to inquire. I know that it is the one thing not given to me to understand. When I think of what you are, I can't accept any reality except a world of your kind. Or atleast a world in which you have a fighting chance and a fight on your own terms. That does not exist. And I can't live a life torn between that which exists-and you. It would mean to struggle against things and men who don't deserve to be your opponents. Your fight, using your methods-and its too horrible a desecration. It would mean doing for you what I did for Peter Keating: lie, flatter, evade, compromise, pander to every ineptitude-in order to beg of them to let you live, to let you function, to beg them, Roark, not to laugh at them, but to tremble because they hold the power to hurt you. Am I too weak because I can't do this? I don't know which is greater strength. To accept all this for you-or to love you so much that the rest is beyond acceptance. I don't know. I love you too much."