the salt and the sea, aeris pony

[Cyprin]

An old soul with young eyes, a vintage heart, and a beautiful mind Regret sinks its claws into her as she watches storm clouds brew in his eyes before he looks away, hiding himself, hiding the stories that brim beneath his sullen surface. Cyprin wants to know more and yet she cannot stop the remorse that thickens her tongue when she realizes the heaviness of her question. I’m sorry. The words are there, flirting with the edges of her lips, but it never strays beyond. Her voice never breaks the silence for the apology to come to fruition. It chokes her, and the small quirk of his mouth paralyzes her. How is it that underneath his stare, Cyprin feels so small? All the tales and pains and joys that he has experienced make him grander in her eyes, a tired hero standing on a pedestal. There is a want in her to touch him, a heated desire to press reassuringly into him as though she can melt away his sorrows. But that is her naivety arising from the mist of her thoughts. When he looks at her, he probably sees a child, even though it has been years since her childhood. Unable to fathom the weight of his reply, Cyprin looks away, hesitating in the grip of her ignorance. There’s only a few seconds in which she breaks away from his gaze, but when she lifts her head again, it is with an answer that isn’t shackled by grief. ”Someone to talk to,” the answer is almost childish and dreamy, almost like she is forcing this onto him, but her nonchalant shrug and darting eyes add an embarrassing truth behind her words. ”Not being alone,” there is family in the caves, parents and siblings that dote on her and admire her, but it isn’t the same. Even when their words lift her, there’s a lingering emptiness that desperately gropes for company and conversation outside of what is familiar. For someone to truly see her and not see the baby of the family.    A sigh passes through her when she finally can look at him again, this time with a sheepish grin. ”Perhaps a bit juvenile,” she comments as an afterthought, her voice soft and barely above a whisper.  Cyprin lior and nayl

picture by Jiamin Zhu on pinterest


@[kensley]