With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; She offers reasons for his paltry existence, and he wants to grasp at them. He wonders, daringly, if she would keep him around for such things, though he would no doubt fail. He has failed them all, when given the opportunity, and no doubt it would happen again. But it’s nice enough, to pretend, so he does no argue with her reasoning. When he withdraws from his initial touch it’s not long before she follows, and his heart lifts at it, because he wants her close, of course he does, he wants all manner of things from her, none of which he expects her to give, because she is pregnant and no one with someone else, someone who is not so miserly as he, and she will return to them when this – whatever this is – ends, and he will be forgotten. But oh, hope flutters in his stomach like birds, a whole flock of them, and when she makes her request he is only too willing to oblige, ever the fool, ever hungry to touch and be touched. He does – he closes what distance is left between them again, chest pressing to hers, wondering if she can feel the thrum of his heart through his chest. His muzzle traces her neck, her withers, moving slow, savoring every sense of her he can wrench from this moment – the scent of her, the feel of her beneath his muzzle, the warmth of her skin on his. It’s only then, drunk on the sense of her, that he answers the question. “There are moments,” he says, “when I think I’m happy, or at least that happiness is within my grasp.” This is almost such a moment, but he doesn’t say it. She will leave soon enough, he is sure, and he doesn’t want to hasten her departure. “What about you, Shiya? Have you ever been happy?” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |
Shit just pretend I posted this from garbages account i noticed this too late