03-18-2020, 03:17 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; He doesn’t know how it turned to this, from confession to caress, but he is stricken at her touch. He isn’t sure how long it’s been, since he has known kindness – years, maybe. Time is flimsy and insubstantial to him, but he knows it has been a long time. More than the touch, though, are her words. Still kind, still forgiving, showing an understanding that he has been unable to show himself. (He lives in a kind of denial, most days. He shakes under the weight of his sins, yet he does not think about them in great detail. He cannot, see, or he might break entirely, unable to face them in their entirety.) “Agetta…” he says, and oh, how her name sounds holy in her mouth. He wonders how long this will last – this moment, her kindness – but he knows he will carry her memory long after she is through with him. And she will be, surely, because it is the cycle, and he knows this, of course he knows this, but for now— For now, he can say her name and run his lips across her neck. For now. “You are like no one I’ve ever met,” he says, “I’m honored to know you.” It’s not I love you, but it’s close. He has learned not to be so quick, knows he reacts and falls with a swiftness that is alarming. Besides, he knows she will depart, soon, and will he see her, after this? This confession, this moment of their bodies close, white and black, the most quintessential contrast – it may very well be all he has but oh, how he intends to cherish it. Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |
@[Agetta]