05-03-2015, 05:43 PM
I love you. Don't you mind, don't you mind? It’s too late for the coast guard. It’s too late for lighthouses and life rafts. It’s too late for anchors, and radars. Isn’t it? He is unsalvageable, but they always toss their lines. He is a wreckage, but they always want to pull him from the sea and scrape the barnacles from his skin and call him found and shabby chic, but he is not an item to be repurposed. He is not something that can be sanded down until the splinters don’t exist. He is cracked and sharp. He is old and damaged. He is lying, cheek against dirt, and this is easier. If he is still enough it’s almost like she’s there beside him. If he is still enough, it’s almost like that day, when the sun bathed them in red light and she was lost and blind and broken, and he saved her. If he is still enough he can bask in the memory of the day when he wasn’t wretched, when he loved someone else without hidden motives, or broken promises. So when she touches him and spills warm air against his cheek, he will not stir. He will not rise. He will not open his eyes for the fear of the memory of her faces dissipating into the ether of reality. It’s become so hard to conjure the lines of her face. Sometimes he draws them out in his mind, and the lines are wrong, and it can feel like fresh wounds instead of those that have been festering for eons. He isn’t trying to linger. He isn’t trying. So when she asks him what has happened, he isn’t trying to linger, he simply cannot bring his lips to move to mouth the word: everything. Instead, he croaks out her name: “Margaery.” Instead, he slides his cheek against the grass, coats his skin in the memory of her cells, and pretends that he can smell jasmine and sweet grass instead of earth worms and stones. barret ---  |