[private] and then I carried its crown; garbage

[garbage]

he must be wicked to deserve such pain;

It’s not that he hasn’t dreamed this before. It has been a fantasy often, one entertained on any of the number of lonely nights he has endured, where he imagines her returning. Where he imagines her body pressed against his, the feel of her against his chest, his neck, beneath his lips.
(He could not, in those fantasies, recall the exact feel of her body, its architecture had been lost to time, but he did his best.)
But he has played out many such daydreams with many different bodies, and they have remained just that – daydreams.
So despite the power of that word – his name, from her lips – he will wonder, for just a moment, if she is a dream. If that madness that had always sat and chittered at the frayed edges of his mind would come forth, make itself known.

But she is real, and she is touching him, kissing him, and he can feel the frantic crash of her heart against his chest as his own heart beats its mayhem. His lips find strands of her mane, his cheek to hers. There are a hundred things he wants to say but none of them can find their way out, so he is silent, engulfed in her as she speaks.
I found you.
And he feels found. Feels seen.
“How?” he asks, though really, does the how of it matter?
Then –
“I missed you. I missed you so much.”

garbage

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@[tabytha]