09-29-2020, 04:33 PM
She reminds him of the snow. If not for the soft blue of her eyes, perhaps he would not have noticed her as a solid, living thing. He wonders if she is cold or if she is soft, if she might melt should he reach out to touch her. But he doesn’t, perhaps fearing that the latter might come true. He settles a few paces away, just in case.
His smile deepens at the mention of her home - or what was once her home, at least - and he casts a glance over his shoulder, as if he might be able to see his own home from here. But Tephra is a long way from the meadow. Still, the green eyes linger a beat on the snow-laden horizon before he returns his attention to her lovely face.
He watches, quiet, as she tilts that lovely face up to the sky to watch the snow tumble and plummet. He tilts his own head, dragging in a shuddering breath, trying to bury the burgeoning urge to reach out and touch her anyway. And he does not look away when she returns her pale blue gaze to his face. He feels no rush of self-consciousness in having been caught watching. There is no shame in it, he thinks, for she is just as bewitching as the soft fields of snow that stretch out around them. There is no embarrassment in thinking it.
“Where were you born?” he asks in the space between her returning her gaze to his face and her offering her name. Casimira. A lovely name, too.
“Casimira,” he echoes, testing the shape of it on his tongue, “my name is Savior.”
His smile deepens at the mention of her home - or what was once her home, at least - and he casts a glance over his shoulder, as if he might be able to see his own home from here. But Tephra is a long way from the meadow. Still, the green eyes linger a beat on the snow-laden horizon before he returns his attention to her lovely face.
He watches, quiet, as she tilts that lovely face up to the sky to watch the snow tumble and plummet. He tilts his own head, dragging in a shuddering breath, trying to bury the burgeoning urge to reach out and touch her anyway. And he does not look away when she returns her pale blue gaze to his face. He feels no rush of self-consciousness in having been caught watching. There is no shame in it, he thinks, for she is just as bewitching as the soft fields of snow that stretch out around them. There is no embarrassment in thinking it.
“Where were you born?” he asks in the space between her returning her gaze to his face and her offering her name. Casimira. A lovely name, too.
“Casimira,” he echoes, testing the shape of it on his tongue, “my name is Savior.”
SAVIOR
you remind me who i was and who i want to be
you remind me that though not whole, i'm not empty
you remind me that though not whole, i'm not empty