06-07-2019, 04:45 PM
She isn’t dead, but she feels like she might be.
She isn’t a ghost, but the way she feels so paper-thin, like the wind can slip right through her, she thinks she could be one.
His wanderlust had never been something that she could tame. No matter how hard their hearts tried to keep them together, no matter how fiercely their souls were intertwined, there were some things about him so wild that not even she could subdue.
And she would have never wanted to.
She had loved him for who he was, even if his gypsy soul could never fully belong to her. She had loved him even when he left, and every time that he had returned, even if a little piece of her shattered each time. She is broken and half-stitched back together, countless times, until this is all she knows, until she is just a tattered shell of something that had once been vibrant and beautiful.
She doesn’t stay here, where they had once called home, because it feels empty without him. She doesn’t stay because every flash of silver makes her heart jump into her throat, and when she spins in hopes of catching those familiar eyes with her own, she is always disappointed. She had always been one to starve herself on hope and wishful thinking, but eventually, even that flame was diminished.
She disappears along with it, and as the years go by, she doesn’t even miss herself anymore.
When she returns, she doesn’t know why. She cannot explain the magnetic pull that brings her back here. She does not notice the way the lands have changed, or that every face is a stranger, because she is only looking for one. There was a reason that the wind brought her here, and foolish girl, she lets that ember of hope spark inside her chest.
She finds him, and her breath catches in her throat.
Jarris. She thinks his name, because when she goes to speak her voice turns to ash on her tongue. She doesn’t realize that she is moving towards him, and that she hasn’t dared to blink since first finding him — so afraid that this is some delusional reverie, that her heart has finally found a way to play tricks on her mind.
She is different when she stands before him. The lines of her face are harsher, from years of solitude and waiting and hoping. But her dark brown doe-eyes are still rich and sweet when she stares up at him through a tangled red forelock, and she reaches to touch him, slowly, carefully. But her skin never finds his skin, as she withdraws cautiously, afraid that this apparition might disintegrate before her very eyes. “It’s you,” she whispers in a voice so soft, so scared and yet so hopeful, her delicate heart kick-starting into a nervous hum. “Do you remember me?”
P L U M E R I A
when all of the light is gone
a single spark is all I need.
She isn’t a ghost, but the way she feels so paper-thin, like the wind can slip right through her, she thinks she could be one.
His wanderlust had never been something that she could tame. No matter how hard their hearts tried to keep them together, no matter how fiercely their souls were intertwined, there were some things about him so wild that not even she could subdue.
And she would have never wanted to.
She had loved him for who he was, even if his gypsy soul could never fully belong to her. She had loved him even when he left, and every time that he had returned, even if a little piece of her shattered each time. She is broken and half-stitched back together, countless times, until this is all she knows, until she is just a tattered shell of something that had once been vibrant and beautiful.
She doesn’t stay here, where they had once called home, because it feels empty without him. She doesn’t stay because every flash of silver makes her heart jump into her throat, and when she spins in hopes of catching those familiar eyes with her own, she is always disappointed. She had always been one to starve herself on hope and wishful thinking, but eventually, even that flame was diminished.
She disappears along with it, and as the years go by, she doesn’t even miss herself anymore.
When she returns, she doesn’t know why. She cannot explain the magnetic pull that brings her back here. She does not notice the way the lands have changed, or that every face is a stranger, because she is only looking for one. There was a reason that the wind brought her here, and foolish girl, she lets that ember of hope spark inside her chest.
She finds him, and her breath catches in her throat.
Jarris. She thinks his name, because when she goes to speak her voice turns to ash on her tongue. She doesn’t realize that she is moving towards him, and that she hasn’t dared to blink since first finding him — so afraid that this is some delusional reverie, that her heart has finally found a way to play tricks on her mind.
She is different when she stands before him. The lines of her face are harsher, from years of solitude and waiting and hoping. But her dark brown doe-eyes are still rich and sweet when she stares up at him through a tangled red forelock, and she reaches to touch him, slowly, carefully. But her skin never finds his skin, as she withdraws cautiously, afraid that this apparition might disintegrate before her very eyes. “It’s you,” she whispers in a voice so soft, so scared and yet so hopeful, her delicate heart kick-starting into a nervous hum. “Do you remember me?”
when all of the light is gone
a single spark is all I need.