TITLE:		Regret (1/1)
AUTHOR:		Avalon
EMAIL:		avalon@fuse.net
RATING:		PG for content
SPOILERS:	None, really.  
CATERGORY:	MSR, RST but with a twist
KEYWORDS: 	Poem, Mulder's POV (give it a chance! Don't be 
		afraid of poetry!)
DISCLAIMER: 	Not mine, yadda yadda yadda.  Come on, it's a poem, for
		God's sake!  Chris, they're yours, and I honor that.
FEEDBACK:	Always appreciated and responded to, thanks.
ARCHIVES:	Ephemeral, Gossamer, Spooky's, anywhere, really, but if
		you are not one of those, please tell me so I can come
		visit.
SUMMARY:	The morning after the first time, and Mulder ponders Scully's
		actions and the feeling of...regret?
AUTHOR'S 
NOTES:		At the end, please.



Regret  

Her words fall steadily around me, monotone raindrops, splashing thick and wet on      
	unhearing ears.
Surrounded by her stagnant puddles, I puzzle, fit together our actions, marvel at the 
	mistake we created.
Cat-like, she stalks an annoying rhythm, forward and back, matching her frustration, her 
	clipped phrases.
In the night, a more pleasant feline, purring, murmuring languid satisfactions, her russet 
	fur thick and silky under my hand.
Intimacies scratched into my flesh, the clutch and release of sharp nails, like her 
	counterpart's claws in tree bark,
Climbing higher toward attainment, fulfillment, glittering eyes wide with wonder and 
	wisdom, manipulating, commanding me to release.

Independent creatures, cats.  One sought our shelter when I was a boy.  I plied it with 
	treats,
Catnip, eager for companionship, a playmate, another soul hungry for adoration.  Instead, 
	I scared it,
Or simply didn't please it, watching in simmering sorrow, it showering attention on 
	Father instead.
It curled about his ankles in the doorway as he struggled from his overcoat, shaking the 
	rain from the fabric,
The cat looking at him expectantly, voicing its demands, until he bent, stroked it, and 
	walked away.
Rejected, I stood silently, tucking the ache away in the volume of childhood hurts, only to 
	be laid open now like a rotten tooth.

She passes her own judgment, eager to forget the night, our frenzied struggle through 
	fever, promise,	deliverance.
There is work now, her dry speech, my conjecture, nothing passing between us but my 
	mute stare, the memory of passion spitting and hissing at me in strained defiance.


AUTHOR'S NOTES:

I know not too many people like poetry, and some may not like the way this poem turns out.
This is a long-line poem that I had to write for an on-line poetry writing seminar I took
a while ago.  My story, "Heat," began as this poem.  I also think the ending, the feeling that 
Mulder conveys here is a little brutal, and I don't really think Scully regretted her 
actions or the two of them finally consumating their relationship.  You gotta go where the
Muse takes you, and this is where She took me at the time.  The line breaks are kind of messed
up here because of the parameters of how to submit...all of the lines should actually be all 
on one line instead of broken.  Just in case you are a poetry student/admirer, I thought I
should point that out.  

Feedback is always appreciated...avalon@fuse.net.  Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you
again soon!