we're knocking knees in a traveling breeze; brigade

[brigade]

I was a poor boy; you were a bright light
I was a sinner and you were a snake

It is steadying to be standing next to her in this way, to feel her so whole against him and to know that she is alive and real—to know that she has a pulse. It is comforting to feel that warmth practically seep into his own bones, to know that he was indeed back. That this wasn’t some dream or some misfiring of his neurons in the final moments of life. He breathes her in deeper, letting it settle into his lungs.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs at her apology, not bothering to correct her that it wasn’t her fault. He knows what she means—knows that she isn’t apologizing for causing it but rather expressing her sorrow of it. He wishes she didn’t feel that way (would she if she saw how little he fought the wolves? how he practically invited the death when it finally greeted him?) and he certainly wishes she didn’t feel it for him.

He was so undeserving of such consideration.

So undeserving of it anything resembling it.

But despite knowing this, he doesn’t release her yet—doesn’t push her away as he pushes away most of anything in his life. Instead he just stands there, his wide chest expanding and then falling with each breath. Finally, he confesses. “I almost didn’t come back.” His voice is quieter on this but he doesn’t step away from her. “I actually chose to stay. I’m not sure why I’m here.”

It was easier to just let himself fall into the shadows and let his mother take his place.

It wasn’t brave or noble—it was just the way of things.

It was the truth of him.

“But I’m still glad I’m here.”

shook like some old souls when our bones broke
swallowed the sickness, a fever, a flame

BRIGADE