09-15-2016, 08:34 AM
± swallow my doubt turn it inside out ±
Hope is the thing with feathers. No, no it isn't. Hope, it breeds eternal misery. Somehow, some way the world kept circling in on him, a broken record, a vicious cycle. Yet as he holds the girl he feels better, if only a little. Maybe it’s because he thinks that he is making her feel better, that he is providing comfort to this lost little child with the familiar face. She calls him Father and it has still yet to truly sink in. His mind races, eyes flicking over the ground back and forth, searching. Was he her Father, is that why he knew her face in such detail? Is it?
It’s not enough to dig now, it's like shoveling water. No matter how hard or deep he goes there is no progress, there is no great epiphany at the end. So instead he cradles her, asks things of her that no man should ask. She doesn’t resist him either, even if he makes no sense, even if what he says unsettles her she doesn't seem to care or doesn’t show it. Instead she laughs, a warm sound even accompanied by the fat tears in her eyes as she looks up at him. His own don’t want to meet hers, are almost afraid of the emptiness they must display back because he is lost, so very lost.
And then the world flips, topples over on top of him.
That face, he thinks, those horns. He knows them, knows the deepest color of the night after the sun has set. The color of a bruise after it has set in over days from a strike long since forgotten. Every so slowly she approaches and for Killdare time has stopped, the world has gone and there is nothing in the Meadow now but them. If only he had more than that, more than the shape of her face, the lines of her lips and the curve of obsidian down her nose. But he has something, even if he doesn’t know the name, even if he doesn’t know why.
His eyes do not leave her, can not tear themselves away from the deepest emerald that make up her own. Even as she says his name he is still, a long stream of air leaving his lungs. How long had he been holding his breath?
Then she scolds him, beckons the girl away from him and her departure from his side leaves him cold. He is still even as she touches him, presses her mouth against the softest place of his face and it feels like fire. It feels like she ignites a flame against his skin and he breathes deep, reveling in her scent, something he knows as well as her face. Mother, this is the Mother the girl sought after. Father she had called him and so he is able to put two and two together but the unknown that still stands between him shatters his heart. He wants to know, he wants to remember but the wall resists, fortifying itself so he cannot break through. “I- I know your face too,” he claims as she pulls away and the child looks to the woman with questions in her voice, though she speaks none.
The emptiness he feels when they are both absent from his touch is transparent in the longing that sets itself in his glassy eyes. “Are you mine?” he asks, willing it to be so. “Am I yours?” he swallows after this, gulping down air as if his chest were entirely too empty.
It’s not enough to dig now, it's like shoveling water. No matter how hard or deep he goes there is no progress, there is no great epiphany at the end. So instead he cradles her, asks things of her that no man should ask. She doesn’t resist him either, even if he makes no sense, even if what he says unsettles her she doesn't seem to care or doesn’t show it. Instead she laughs, a warm sound even accompanied by the fat tears in her eyes as she looks up at him. His own don’t want to meet hers, are almost afraid of the emptiness they must display back because he is lost, so very lost.
And then the world flips, topples over on top of him.
That face, he thinks, those horns. He knows them, knows the deepest color of the night after the sun has set. The color of a bruise after it has set in over days from a strike long since forgotten. Every so slowly she approaches and for Killdare time has stopped, the world has gone and there is nothing in the Meadow now but them. If only he had more than that, more than the shape of her face, the lines of her lips and the curve of obsidian down her nose. But he has something, even if he doesn’t know the name, even if he doesn’t know why.
His eyes do not leave her, can not tear themselves away from the deepest emerald that make up her own. Even as she says his name he is still, a long stream of air leaving his lungs. How long had he been holding his breath?
Then she scolds him, beckons the girl away from him and her departure from his side leaves him cold. He is still even as she touches him, presses her mouth against the softest place of his face and it feels like fire. It feels like she ignites a flame against his skin and he breathes deep, reveling in her scent, something he knows as well as her face. Mother, this is the Mother the girl sought after. Father she had called him and so he is able to put two and two together but the unknown that still stands between him shatters his heart. He wants to know, he wants to remember but the wall resists, fortifying itself so he cannot break through. “I- I know your face too,” he claims as she pulls away and the child looks to the woman with questions in her voice, though she speaks none.
The emptiness he feels when they are both absent from his touch is transparent in the longing that sets itself in his glassy eyes. “Are you mine?” he asks, willing it to be so. “Am I yours?” he swallows after this, gulping down air as if his chest were entirely too empty.
KILLDARE
spin around to a beautiful oblivion