02-24-2018, 04:07 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; He wonders what happened to her, what magic or malice set upon her – new scars, a new glow about her, all adding to her beauty. They are multipliers, new stories on her skin, ones he wonders about, ones he’d die to read. His own skin lacks scars, though sometimes parts of him ache, as if there were once wounds there. Ghosts of wars past. He is ready to fall to his knees in apology (even as part of him screams and gnashes its teeth, telling him to turn away, that no good can come of this), to promise not to leave her in such a way again. To explain himself, not that the explanation makes sense – little of him does – but whatever he can to eke out forgiveness. But before he can fall to his knees, she’s close, nose extended, brushing against him. Time has only strengthened the electricity of her touch, and he shudders at it, overcome in gratitude and fear alike. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he touches her, nose against her cheek, “I shouldn’t have left.” Still touching. Mapping her. He is terrified. “You look beautiful,” he says. It is an understatement, but he is no poet. His touches say what he cannot, still touching her with such reverence, as if she is a holy grail long-sought. Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |