Triple Step

1. Poems

He wants to capture it - the feeling of it all - everything. The way everything felt all at once; forlornness of senses; of touch and sound and smell and sight. And when fantasies carry him far enough, he remembers that he has none of that - sound and touch and sight and smell and it all. And he realizes that words don't suffice. Because in the end, he only has ink and paper. They are only words.

Words can't portray this, this shivering madness. This rhythm of suicide. Poems don't sing.

But he realizes that he had failed; and his words are meaningless within themselves because they somehow lost the eloquence they once bore. He isn't good enough. And although he pretends otherwise, it hurt.

So he stops writing.

But as he stops, he realizes that he breathed through words, and things are lesser and he is insignificant.

2. Kisses

He kisses Sirius.

He kisses him with all the underlying intensity and passion - awry and frustrated. But it doesn't suffice either, despite what he once thought. Because Sirius pulls away.

Because he realizes that, really, it is more than a kiss. It is desperation and agony and lonesomeness and rage rammed into a single thing; intense, hard, sad. Because he sought for the remnants of the past, while Sirius lives in the future. While love is the stake, not the reason. He realizes that kisses reminded him too much of the feelings he failed to capture; and so did Sirius.

And he hates the awkwardness that yawns bitter between them.

Because they'd pause long before answering to each other's questions; and halt in movement whenever their eyes met. Tense. Long and soundless. Remus has never felt a silence as thick as this.

So he asks Sirius because he is weary, and he'd say nothing - and Remus feels himself shrinking smaller.

Remus wonders if he will ever escape the past tense, or if he will ever stop going around in incessant circles.

3. Seasons

It is autumn. And to Remus, autumn means everything - life and death and everything.

It is the cinnamon smell of dried leaves and dirt, soft and sad; the feel of a forlorn sky sheer and tall; golden-toned and melancholy. It is the sound of piano - clear and painful.

So he tries to learn music. So he tries to create that feeling, that impeccable feeling of everything all rushing into the mind at once; perfection. That turning of events conveyed simply and aptly by each note, each symbol. He wants that.

Yet he knows he can't. Because music is just altogether, too pertained, too confined and limited. It is so elegantly, cleanly packaged that all he wants to do was scream. He wants the familiar feeling of inkwell and quill again - words that spilt forth from his pen in harsh, manifest syllables.

So he stops trying all together, stops trying to capture the texture of Sirius' lips - the cool of autumn wind on bare, naked skin - the warmth of love - the browns of the fallen leaves - the depths of the sea - the smell of flowers that wilted exactly a year ago - the sound of Sirius' breaths. What was.

"Mrs. Dalloway, always giving parties to cover the silence."

And Remus knows exactly what it means.