There was a birch tree in the field; Misra

[Misra]

Misra

i'd go to hell and back with you; stay lost in what we've found.

  Her cheek is pressed against his, the salty brine of his fallen tears blending in with her own, as she nestles closer to him, resting her jaw against the dark, tangled tresses that lay against his neck. There, she can feel his pulse, thumping rhythmically with her own, and a soft, wistful sigh emerges from her tired and weary lungs. She is quiet, clutching tightly onto the fleeting moment in which the tension coiled within her terse muscles and the ache in her broken heart is soothed and quieted by his soft, but steady promise.

  Softly, her dark lips touch his skin, pressing soft, but greedy kisses along the length of his neck.

  ”How long?” She whispers, her mouth pressed against his flesh and her voice reverberating across the surface, emotion stirring within her tightened throat. ”How long have you been unable to see?” She inquires, but her kisses do not cease, do not end – she had been wary before, shy even, uncertain so to where his heart may lie, but now it is her own, with no secrecy or uncertainty left between them.

  Too much time had passed, and there is a soothing warmth filling the anxious void of her chest as he presses closer to her, enveloping her in his embrace – she had always loved him, she realized, but she hadn’t realized how much until she had lost him.

  Then, he is murmuring to her about a thicket, with a bubbling stream and dense foliage, and there is a tinge of mirth in his voice – he has found where he most belongs, and she longs to belong with him, and so in her mind, there is no question that wherever he might go, she will follow, too. To a place with thick, towering trees and bleak, barely-there sunlight, and a young child, taken beneath his proverbial wing. The thought of him, once gruff and rough around the edges, softened and affectionate towards a son or daughter stirs a surge of emotion to stir within her.

  Gently, she presses a kiss to his jaw, nodding her head slightly towards him, tucking her forehead beneath his chin.

  She was broken – damaged goods, worth little or nothing, and he deserved so much more.
  But she was selfish, she loved him, and she could pretend to be whole and happy.

  She could pretend.
  For him.

  ”I would love to meet her,” she murmurs then, softly. ”take me home, Siberian. To wherever home is.”

worlds apart, we were the same until we hit the ground.