02-15-2021, 05:42 PM
i ain’t the strongest hickory that your ax has ever felled
but i’m a hickory just as well, i’m a hickory all the same
but i’m a hickory just as well, i’m a hickory all the same
There had been a part of her that had always known that in the end, it would be them.
It was why she had bore every heartache in mostly silence, why she had watched with a clench in her heart as he repeatedly chose to chase fleeting romances over staying. She had done her best to hide every bruise and every crack, had endured the kind of pain she had not thought it possible to survive. And only because she had been so sure that the ache was not going to last forever. He always came back, she would whisper to a heart that was still struggling to beat around the breaks and the fragments clinging together. He always comes back, she would remind herself for the countless lonely night and a seemingly infinite amount of days.
And he did—he always came back, and he always came back to her, and her alone.
If someone had told her all of those years ago that when Beqanna plunged into dark that it would be him at her side, she would have believed them—because there was no other outcome possible, in her mind.
“That’s why I miss seeing you,” she says with a small smile in the dark, reaching to touch her lips to his gold-stained cheeks. The feel of the dampness reignites the hurt in her chest; she hated knowing that he was like this, hated even more knowing there was nothing she could do to help him. Knowing that there were thorns digging into his skin, that the tears never stopped. “You’re my favorite thing to look at,” she finishes with a gentle sweep of her lips along his jaw.
He asks about their children, and she pushes down the worry that threatens to bubble up her throat and into her words. “I’m sure they’re fine,” she says, even if she doesn’t believe it. Their children were grown now, even if some of the younger ones that did not seem possible. She had to believe that they were fine, because that was a pain she was not ready to bear.
In the silence that settles between them there is a sound—a distant rattling of breath, the soft swish of grass as something moves through it. Her heart quickens, the icy pinpricks of fear rippling down the ridge of her spine as she presses closer to him. “Do you hear that?” she asks him, her mouth against his neck, afraid that if she speaks even above a whisper that it will draw attention further to them, even though she is so sure her pounding heart is going to give them away.
It was why she had bore every heartache in mostly silence, why she had watched with a clench in her heart as he repeatedly chose to chase fleeting romances over staying. She had done her best to hide every bruise and every crack, had endured the kind of pain she had not thought it possible to survive. And only because she had been so sure that the ache was not going to last forever. He always came back, she would whisper to a heart that was still struggling to beat around the breaks and the fragments clinging together. He always comes back, she would remind herself for the countless lonely night and a seemingly infinite amount of days.
And he did—he always came back, and he always came back to her, and her alone.
If someone had told her all of those years ago that when Beqanna plunged into dark that it would be him at her side, she would have believed them—because there was no other outcome possible, in her mind.
“That’s why I miss seeing you,” she says with a small smile in the dark, reaching to touch her lips to his gold-stained cheeks. The feel of the dampness reignites the hurt in her chest; she hated knowing that he was like this, hated even more knowing there was nothing she could do to help him. Knowing that there were thorns digging into his skin, that the tears never stopped. “You’re my favorite thing to look at,” she finishes with a gentle sweep of her lips along his jaw.
He asks about their children, and she pushes down the worry that threatens to bubble up her throat and into her words. “I’m sure they’re fine,” she says, even if she doesn’t believe it. Their children were grown now, even if some of the younger ones that did not seem possible. She had to believe that they were fine, because that was a pain she was not ready to bear.
In the silence that settles between them there is a sound—a distant rattling of breath, the soft swish of grass as something moves through it. Her heart quickens, the icy pinpricks of fear rippling down the ridge of her spine as she presses closer to him. “Do you hear that?” she asks him, her mouth against his neck, afraid that if she speaks even above a whisper that it will draw attention further to them, even though she is so sure her pounding heart is going to give them away.
plumeria
@[jarris]