04-25-2017, 10:30 PM
i'm not going to change, so stay out of my way.
i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
She is tired.
She is tired, she is angry, and she is hurt –
her once tightly bound, carefully guarded heart left on display; an open, gaping wound.
It had been many days, many months since she had seen him, and though the betrayal that had once festered within her sordid blood no longer blistered, and the anguish that had seized her no longer stifled, a definitive ache has settled into the small crevices of her broken heart. He was not terrible, no – his fervid kisses, his strength, poise and wisdom always a lit beacon in the dark, but he was broken – pieced together by the sheer force and will beyond his own, forced to live a tired life that had been a heavy burden on his shoulders.
She could not mend his wounds; she could not quiet the deeply woven fears that remained so delicately threaded into his very existence. He was only a fragment of what he had once been; and though she had come to love the broken pieces of him, he had never been hers to keep, and so she had let him go. While her heart longed for him (for the warmth of his shoulder against her own, for the quiet rumbling of his whiskey-rich voice), Magnus deserved more – and perhaps, she – no.
She would not give her heart away again.
A breathy sigh emerges from her flared nostrils, as the frigid, salty breeze weaves it way through her pale, ashy tresses, which lay against the damp nape of her neck – the mist from the crashing, crushing waves of the tireless sea draping itself over her golden skin. Her pace is light, and carefree – wandering the rim of the ocean, as her hazel eyes stare at the wet, compacted sand as it gives way to the weight of her four-beat pace stride. Her mind is elsewhere, but the soft crooning of seagulls and the lull of the roaring shoreline is soothing – a brief reprieve for her assiduous mind.
Finally, her gold-rimmed eyes raise from the coastline, searching the wavering tendrils of dried vegetation lining the beach – finding a familiar face framed by the hazy sky behind him. Warrick. Russet and painted with deep indigo, he is stark against the pale gray of the skyline, and she is soon moving towards him, tucking her broad, white wings tightly against her sides as the bristling wind sends a shiver coursing down her spine.
”Warrick,” she says over the roar of an oncoming wave, a shadow of a smile hiding at the corners of her whiskered lips. ”it has been a while. How are you?”
She is tired, she is angry, and she is hurt –
her once tightly bound, carefully guarded heart left on display; an open, gaping wound.
It had been many days, many months since she had seen him, and though the betrayal that had once festered within her sordid blood no longer blistered, and the anguish that had seized her no longer stifled, a definitive ache has settled into the small crevices of her broken heart. He was not terrible, no – his fervid kisses, his strength, poise and wisdom always a lit beacon in the dark, but he was broken – pieced together by the sheer force and will beyond his own, forced to live a tired life that had been a heavy burden on his shoulders.
She could not mend his wounds; she could not quiet the deeply woven fears that remained so delicately threaded into his very existence. He was only a fragment of what he had once been; and though she had come to love the broken pieces of him, he had never been hers to keep, and so she had let him go. While her heart longed for him (for the warmth of his shoulder against her own, for the quiet rumbling of his whiskey-rich voice), Magnus deserved more – and perhaps, she – no.
She would not give her heart away again.
A breathy sigh emerges from her flared nostrils, as the frigid, salty breeze weaves it way through her pale, ashy tresses, which lay against the damp nape of her neck – the mist from the crashing, crushing waves of the tireless sea draping itself over her golden skin. Her pace is light, and carefree – wandering the rim of the ocean, as her hazel eyes stare at the wet, compacted sand as it gives way to the weight of her four-beat pace stride. Her mind is elsewhere, but the soft crooning of seagulls and the lull of the roaring shoreline is soothing – a brief reprieve for her assiduous mind.
Finally, her gold-rimmed eyes raise from the coastline, searching the wavering tendrils of dried vegetation lining the beach – finding a familiar face framed by the hazy sky behind him. Warrick. Russet and painted with deep indigo, he is stark against the pale gray of the skyline, and she is soon moving towards him, tucking her broad, white wings tightly against her sides as the bristling wind sends a shiver coursing down her spine.
”Warrick,” she says over the roar of an oncoming wave, a shadow of a smile hiding at the corners of her whiskered lips. ”it has been a while. How are you?”
Ellyse
@[Warrick]