03-08-2020, 04:10 PM
She was used to him leaving, but it never made it any easier. She was used to him coming back, too, though she never knew when that would be.
When he had stolen away from her side that night, she had of course noticed, but she hadn’t stirred. She never asked him to stay, because she never wanted him to feel tethered to her. She loved everything that was wild about him, she loved that something so wayward and full of wanderlust could still make its way back to her, but it didn’t stop the ache in her chest. It had been so long since he had last left, and so she had been sure that he would return by morning. She had pulled Dear close to her and whispered soft reassurances in the little girl’s neck, that he would be back and not to worry. And when dawn spread across the sky, so did that longing emptiness bloom inside the cavity of her ribs.
She waited, as she always did, but he didn’t come back.
But even as the days bled into weeks, and the weeks into months, she couldn’t extinguish that faint flicker of hope, because she has waited longer, and she would wait forever.
When he does return, she almost does not recognize him. There is a thorned crown above his head, and golden rivers that run down his cheeks, and all she can do is suck in a breath and ask, “What happened?” He doesn’t answer her then, though, and so she simply follows him. Away from the meadow, and she worries in the back of her mind that Dear will not be able to find them, but she follows him to this new jungle without argument.
They arrive, and the confusion is clear on her face when he turns to her and asks her if she had been at the mountain. “The mountain? Why would I have gone to the mountain?” She stares at him, at his remarkably beautiful face, at the crown of the thorns and the golden tears, and she is afraid that her heart might break. She remembers when he had first come back, the last time, and how convinced he had been that she was a ghost. He is looking at her in a similar way; as though he doesn't know if she is real, as if his reality has again been shaken and foundation of it crumbled. She reaches forward, to touch her lips against his cheek, the gold now glittering across her copper lips as she asks him softly, “Jarris, what happened?”
P L U M E R I A
when all of the light is gone
a single spark is all I need.
When he had stolen away from her side that night, she had of course noticed, but she hadn’t stirred. She never asked him to stay, because she never wanted him to feel tethered to her. She loved everything that was wild about him, she loved that something so wayward and full of wanderlust could still make its way back to her, but it didn’t stop the ache in her chest. It had been so long since he had last left, and so she had been sure that he would return by morning. She had pulled Dear close to her and whispered soft reassurances in the little girl’s neck, that he would be back and not to worry. And when dawn spread across the sky, so did that longing emptiness bloom inside the cavity of her ribs.
She waited, as she always did, but he didn’t come back.
But even as the days bled into weeks, and the weeks into months, she couldn’t extinguish that faint flicker of hope, because she has waited longer, and she would wait forever.
When he does return, she almost does not recognize him. There is a thorned crown above his head, and golden rivers that run down his cheeks, and all she can do is suck in a breath and ask, “What happened?” He doesn’t answer her then, though, and so she simply follows him. Away from the meadow, and she worries in the back of her mind that Dear will not be able to find them, but she follows him to this new jungle without argument.
They arrive, and the confusion is clear on her face when he turns to her and asks her if she had been at the mountain. “The mountain? Why would I have gone to the mountain?” She stares at him, at his remarkably beautiful face, at the crown of the thorns and the golden tears, and she is afraid that her heart might break. She remembers when he had first come back, the last time, and how convinced he had been that she was a ghost. He is looking at her in a similar way; as though he doesn't know if she is real, as if his reality has again been shaken and foundation of it crumbled. She reaches forward, to touch her lips against his cheek, the gold now glittering across her copper lips as she asks him softly, “Jarris, what happened?”
when all of the light is gone
a single spark is all I need.