10-14-2015, 02:44 PM
TREKK
If someone ever told a story about the winged man, it would be a broken-hearted one. It would be a story filled with ups and downs – but mostly downs. It would be a story that would seem to have a happily ever after, only for a plot twist to tear that happiness away. It would be a story of tears and laughter and brokenness and the darkness of life. It would be a story of regret and adoration and endlessly forgiving love. It would be a story that would leave the reader begging for more – praying for the happy ending for the prince who lost his princess.
She is his princess. She is the one he will forever treasure, no matter how many times she breaks his heart and steps on the mangled pieces. She is the one he wants to grow old next to. She is the one he wants to hold close in their final moments, as the world continues to spin but their bodies cease to breathe. She is the only weakness he wants to have. She is the only darling he wants to embrace wholly in the autumn nighttime.
But in most ways, she is always just out of his reach. She always falls at just the right angle around him so that she might shatter. She always dances into his arms and then an inch away. She always cries into his t-shirt but once she has composed her sappy, sticky tears she aborts his warm presence for a different, unfamiliar one. He is always left waiting – waiting, waiting, eternally waiting – for her to come sobbing back into his gentle arms from heartbreak from a different man.
The sound of her voice sends a choked gasp out of his throat. How many years had he been searching, just to hear that heart-wrenching tune? The last time he’d seen her was when their son had been shoved into his surprised grasp (and she’d turned her back on him, just as everyone did). She is shivering and whimpering and blinded, yet she looks just as beautiful as she does in the springtime. The sight of her (however ill she might be) is a sight for his sore eyes and he sighs loudly when his suicidal depths relax in relief.
At first, he is at loss for words. Then, they spring to his throat. They are the only words his heart has ever sung and will ever sing. They are the words purely meant for her, even when she rips his heart out and dumps it in a trash can. They are not the words he intended to say (in fact, he had a speech prepared, but it went down the drain at the sound of her voice) but perhaps they are the words he has always meant. “I love you.” He staggers toward her, warm breath leaking out of his lungs to dance across her icy skin.
When he touches her, he melts. “Oh, I love you so much.” His voice is ache and sore and dreadful. The degree of his affection seeps from his voice like an overflowing dam, drowning everything in its path. “Please,” he begs, “don’t leave me again.”