come to me in the night hours, i will wait for you
Perhaps they are drawn together like the way shadows grow long in the night, collecting and pooling until there is only dark, only evernight. It is not unusual for her to be about at this hour, it seems that restlessness is an ichor in her veins that flows beside the blood, and it seldom allows her any rest. There are dreams in the dark, and nightmares behind the eyelids of those that give in to weariness. She has no use for either. In dream there is memory, and in memory there is more pain than she knows where to keep. Certainly not inside a chest so full of holes.
She does not look for company - there is no one she could imagine worth knowing, no one worth being vulnerable with. There is so little of her still intact to give, these days, and what’s left is for her daughter and son, though she sees them less and less often now. She doesn’t blame the way they come and go like the tides of the ocean, because just like those same tides she knows they will always return. Maybe their father is the same way, but she is most certainly not the shore he washes up on anymore.
Old pain flares in her chest, and though she is not crippled by it as she once was, she can feel the poison of it spill through her and she wonders at what point the corrosion will be too much.
Soon, she thinks, from the weary shade of the world around her. It will be soon.
She would’ve ignored the cremello stallion in the same way she ignores everything. He is handsome to be sure, and there is a lingering dark in the backs of his eyes that delights her in their familiarity. But both things make him dangerous to her, like a moth to flame. She knows this better, now - it is a knowledge her very wounds still bleed.
Still, her stride slows as her face turns to him in the shadows, light flickering beneath her skin like strange bioluminescence in the heavy dark. She notes the way the moonlight catches and reflects in those cremello hairs as though he is little more than a ghost. There is an odd, unnameable impulse to reach out and touch him, a curiosity as to whether or not she has truly lost her mind, or if there will be warm skin beneath her lips.
She does not reach out though.
Instead she pulls on his shadows - she can feel them there beneath his skin and does not realize that his are almost certainly stronger than hers. She wonders if he will even notice when they leave him - if they leave him - and if it will anger him to have a stranger take from him in such an intimate way. It is more than not caring, it is the recklessness of brokenness, the desire to face fury and feel it reflected inside herself.
Fury is easier than this pain she holds inside her chest, she is sure of it.
even though i try not to
