Rapture
somewhere between the sand and the stardust
When he doesn’t leave, doesn’t abandon her to her pain and loneliness, she can feel a faint joy, an optimism, stealing over her. A welcome warmth that floods her veins and brings just a hint of brightness to the blue of her features. And when he doesn’t withdraw again, doesn’t flinch from her hesitant touch, she is emboldened. A tiny flower seeking its ray of light, petals spreading, showing the truth of its beauty.
She is that flower and he the sun.
Not that she would ever say such things. She could never be so bold, not in word.
When his neck flexes, muzzle briefly touching the ridges of chest, she instinctively presses closer. Her lips trace from shoulder to neck, feeling the tenseness of the muscles there, the quiver of uncertainty. She rubs gently against the soft, sleek hair, as though her soft, unassuming touch could ease the strain and tension from his larger frame.
For a moment, just a moment, she is tempted to curl into him, to let her touch explore, to find the dot of red on his chest and rub it away. But she is not brave enough. Instead she remains silent, allowing her softer, smaller form to ease against him, inch by infinitesimal inch. A tender touch that seeks to do nothing more than offer solace and solidarity.
there is a pulse that echoes of you and I
