He sighs with relief when she closes the distance. An exhale that brings her closer to him, his body wrapping around her as if she was the first drink of water of a dying man. He drops his mouth to her shoulder and presses a kiss there—tentative still and so very different from the hungry, insistent way he had touched her all of those years ago. When he had been foolish and terrified and so very young.
But not now.
Now they come together and it is as natural as breathing. As right as rain. He touches her softly and quietly, as if in worship, as if she is a revelation (and she is, she is). “I have loved you my whole life, I think,” he confesses into the soft curves of her as his mouth continues to trail down her shoulder and then up her neck. “I loved you when I first saw you. My heart knew before my head could catch up.”
Perhaps that is what scared him so much when she had first offered to run with him. How his heart had leapt at the offer—at the chance of a future with this young woman. How clearly she had seen him in those moments before he had obscured it. Before he had pushed her away as quick and far as possible.
His heart pounds in his chest at the impossibility of this moment and for a second he closes his eyes, pulling her close against him. “I can’t believe we’re here,” another confession, this one said quieter and to her, as if the very air may break the moment. “I can’t believe you didn’t kill me first,” this time a laugh.
so as our grief falls flat and hollow upon a billion blooded seas
all our worst ideas are borrowed (you do and don't belong to me)