you're always in my head; dom

[Barret]

I love you. Don't you mind, don't you mind? He is a ship without sails, set adrift in a sea without stars to guide him. He is all splintered, wooden bones with an inside left hollow, and the sky is black, and the sea is black, and he would sink into nothing if he only knew which way was down. To exist is simply easier. To float in time and space, directionless and wanting nothing, is simply easier. To be a ship lost in the night is easier, and he will take simplicity when it comes. It rarely does, after all. Today he is floating in a sea of grass rather than water and empty skies. He could sail to the ends of the earth (and he has, oh he has!) but when the world runs out, he will always end up here. He will always end up where the world made sense once, even if only for one summer’s red-washed night, even if only for the span of a blink. He will always end up thinking of the night they had before everything was ruined, of her skin and the way it looked in the last of the sunlight, of the sweat beading down her neck. Sometimes he still tastes her. Sometimes he still smells jasmine and sweet grass. Sometimes it’s like she never left at all. He isn’t trying to linger, but there were always magnets between them; a gravity that was undeniable to him, but she could talk herself out of without tongues or teeth left in her skull. He isn’t trying to linger, but his eyes pick out the grass that they laid on once upon a time from the millions of others that all look exactly the same. He isn’t trying to linger, but his knees buckle there and he falls into the grass where they once fell together. He isn’t trying to linger, but he rubs his face against the dirt in the hopes that maybe, somehow, there will still be fragments of her there that will rub off into his flesh; some smell, some hair, some cells – anything. He isn’t trying to linger, but he is a ship without sails set adrift in a sea without stars to guide him and Margaery is the only North that he knows. barret ---