He is so reserved. Withdrawn from my presence, scared of my scent, hesitant of my touch. He greets me like a commoner come to light; a mare whom he saw once upon a time in the meadow. A mare he had no attachment to, no love for. I deserve this. I have earned this greeting.
Love me.
Feel me.
He is the brick wall I came to love so long ago. His sturdy demeanor and headstrong expression still well-worn and fashioned on his dark face. God built him with the head set of building a warrior. A stead that will only grow more beautiful with tarnishes and scars. He is so much like a family heirloom; a story within every cut, the beauty within the memories and not the perfections.
He says my name and I hold on to his show of compassion: the slight catch in his throat. I close my eyes and grasp onto this moment, this half second, for as long as I possibly can. I know I won’t get much, I don’t deserve what I am receiving now.
Therefore, I will treasure even the slightest form of fondness.
For a second, he is only mine. Mine.
The moment dissolves into a distant memory and I feel his body harden in my wake once more. I inch closer to close the space, to reach desperately for that man one more time. Animosity glows of his coat.
He faces me, and I return his glance until I watch the soft form of pity build in his eyes. I turn away, angered. I want to be flawless; perfect. Untainted and beautiful like I once was. I wish him not to see me like this, I wish he could go blind for just a few seconds. Long enough for me to dissolve in his presence but not long enough I turn to a pumpkin at midnight.
I have proven how weak I am.
“Gone?” Is all I manage to say with a hesitant tone; why am I surprised? She was given the heart of a wanderer and the mind of a mule. Our genetics were never meant to pan out, much like Warship and I were never meant to blossom. He being the fuel to my fire, and I persisting to burn him dry. I drank him for all he had, like a drunkard in a cheap bar. I left him, a bottle of emptiness and uselessness on the dirty bar top. I took him for all he had.
Who am I to return?
I won’t press our daughter, won’t open that door. His presence is a gift, a privilege.
I will not spook the deer.
He is a broken light in a damp cabin. His dark, cold anger suffocating me and then suddenly, his warm familiar light reassuring my position. Here he is again, this flicker of light, a swinging flaky lantern that will no doubt burn out too soon. I bathe in his light, I feel his mouth ripple small circles along my mane and throat. Soft warm breath coaxes over my coat like coffee steam against lips. I feel him. I touch him.
“I won’t steal your fuel, Warship.” I say, my voice soft and faint, “I promise to only help you burn brighter.”
Love me.
Feel me.
He is the brick wall I came to love so long ago. His sturdy demeanor and headstrong expression still well-worn and fashioned on his dark face. God built him with the head set of building a warrior. A stead that will only grow more beautiful with tarnishes and scars. He is so much like a family heirloom; a story within every cut, the beauty within the memories and not the perfections.
He says my name and I hold on to his show of compassion: the slight catch in his throat. I close my eyes and grasp onto this moment, this half second, for as long as I possibly can. I know I won’t get much, I don’t deserve what I am receiving now.
Therefore, I will treasure even the slightest form of fondness.
For a second, he is only mine. Mine.
The moment dissolves into a distant memory and I feel his body harden in my wake once more. I inch closer to close the space, to reach desperately for that man one more time. Animosity glows of his coat.
He faces me, and I return his glance until I watch the soft form of pity build in his eyes. I turn away, angered. I want to be flawless; perfect. Untainted and beautiful like I once was. I wish him not to see me like this, I wish he could go blind for just a few seconds. Long enough for me to dissolve in his presence but not long enough I turn to a pumpkin at midnight.
I have proven how weak I am.
“Gone?” Is all I manage to say with a hesitant tone; why am I surprised? She was given the heart of a wanderer and the mind of a mule. Our genetics were never meant to pan out, much like Warship and I were never meant to blossom. He being the fuel to my fire, and I persisting to burn him dry. I drank him for all he had, like a drunkard in a cheap bar. I left him, a bottle of emptiness and uselessness on the dirty bar top. I took him for all he had.
Who am I to return?
I won’t press our daughter, won’t open that door. His presence is a gift, a privilege.
I will not spook the deer.
He is a broken light in a damp cabin. His dark, cold anger suffocating me and then suddenly, his warm familiar light reassuring my position. Here he is again, this flicker of light, a swinging flaky lantern that will no doubt burn out too soon. I bathe in his light, I feel his mouth ripple small circles along my mane and throat. Soft warm breath coaxes over my coat like coffee steam against lips. I feel him. I touch him.
“I won’t steal your fuel, Warship.” I say, my voice soft and faint, “I promise to only help you burn brighter.”