Isn’t it scary though? That while he has his edges and scars—his history and lessons—she has nothing but emptiness? Isn’t it more beneficial to live a life of struggles and valleys than just “be”. While he has explored, ventured, learned, lived; she has stayed in this plateau of vacancy. She has occupied space, taken air, inhaled water and nibbled at grass. She has simply “been”.
Isn’t that scarier: while he has gotten to make the most of his life, she has only gotten to float amongst the victories, never earning herself a pretty scar.
She would be foolish to not acknowledge the experience that dashed in his well-practiced, crooked grin. She saw the way his features pulled together to be this rugged, handsome man. Like a hard working laborer with priorities of earning his keep, rather than fancying his lifestyle. She admired him before she learnt his name. He had a fascinating glow, an intensifying aura that drew her in like a child following the scent of fresh cookies. He looked hardened, well-lived, but he wore his appearance like a glove.
Unlike her, he did not look awkward in the body he was given.
He asks her a question, and she feels anxious to disappoint. What brings her here? Exemplary doesn’t really know. Our little doe is a wanderer, a ghost. She haunts everything and everyone with no real purpose or reason. Her legs continue to walk and she passively inhales the view. A doomed black beauty roaming the well ventured trail. A mare full of emptiness, gliding like a helium balloon across a parking lot.
“I,” she starts, but isn’t sure how to finish. She isn’t a liar, but she so desperately yearns to satisfy his curiosity. She is no trick of the trade, no magician or talent. As numerously stated, she has no dark and twisty story. He must have some woman to hide from, maybe some important duty to procrastinate about. However she? She has this horrible habit of walking. “I got bored of the scenery. I needed something new.”
She watches him, exfoliates his energy against hers. His musky, well-worn, masculine scent wafting into her nostrils with an odd sweet dash. As naïve, untarnished as she is—our white canvas appreciates the art of a well painted picture. It is a skill of hers; appreciating what most do not. Longing for the day her heart shatters to a mess of broken pieces, longing for a time where scars will taint her ebony coat.
One day, she will be appreciated for her finished artwork.
Exemplary
I will be yours, and only yours, until the day I fade to black