03-04-2018, 09:14 PM
They are history repeating itself over and over again.
As he comforts her through the hungry, frothing waters of deep sadness, he reflects on the first time they had met. His own mind had been tortured (those barbed-wire thoughts still show themselves at the worst times, but he is finally learning to tame them) in those fresh-skin days of the Jungle. She had promised him of greater things amid his dark thoughts and shameless tears.
She had saved his life that day. The least he could do was repay her for it. He does so now, pulling her closer though they are skin to skin. He allows her tears to soak his bare chest and strokes the soft of her hair until her shaking sobs slow. They are history in the sense that their parenting styles leave them absent of their children’s lives (much as their own parents had been for them).
They finish their Jungle lullaby in harmony, thickly sweet against the chill of their silent bed. She is confiding in him, calling him her savior, and he chuckles despite the severity of their situation. His face leans down to kiss the splatter of freckles under her eyes. “You saved me first, babe.” Does she remember the first time they met (in the wilderness of the Jungle, in the stillness of each other’s bodies, in their roughness of each other’s hearts)?
“How could I not be patient, when you have been my goddess all along?”
As he comforts her through the hungry, frothing waters of deep sadness, he reflects on the first time they had met. His own mind had been tortured (those barbed-wire thoughts still show themselves at the worst times, but he is finally learning to tame them) in those fresh-skin days of the Jungle. She had promised him of greater things amid his dark thoughts and shameless tears.
She had saved his life that day. The least he could do was repay her for it. He does so now, pulling her closer though they are skin to skin. He allows her tears to soak his bare chest and strokes the soft of her hair until her shaking sobs slow. They are history in the sense that their parenting styles leave them absent of their children’s lives (much as their own parents had been for them).
They finish their Jungle lullaby in harmony, thickly sweet against the chill of their silent bed. She is confiding in him, calling him her savior, and he chuckles despite the severity of their situation. His face leans down to kiss the splatter of freckles under her eyes. “You saved me first, babe.” Does she remember the first time they met (in the wilderness of the Jungle, in the stillness of each other’s bodies, in their roughness of each other’s hearts)?
“How could I not be patient, when you have been my goddess all along?”