living for the past
because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
Wishbone can still remember the last time she had seen him. Loess was their backdrop and steaming, warmed pools of freshwater had been the foreground. He’d slipped into the water with all the skillful practice of someone born on an island and it had reminded her of the time he’d saved her from the pull of the ocean. Those damned whales had been intoxicating to her young mind, daring her to drag her legs through the currents to join them. She’d probably drowned if Wolfbane hadn’t been there.
In fact, she can think of many times she would have drowned (or been burnt alive or broken a leg or choked or suffocated or sliced her skin open) if Wolfbane hadn’t been there. A smile comes to her mouth from beneath the scant shadow of the cactus at the thought of how annoyed he must have been, always running to save the wild girl that taunted death closer. He must have been so weary. Wishbone had thought he’d leave her in the days of their youth, choosing instead to pursue some meek, gentle mare who would be the makings of a mother for his children. He hadn’t, at least in those days, and their young friendship had blossomed into something crafted with warmth and even warmer touches beneath the light of a Nerinian glow-worm cavern.
The autumn breeze brings the scent of familiarity; the musk and limestone of him drags her away from her nostalgia and worry. Amber eyes catch against olive ones. His voice soothes the last of her anxiety away, as though a roughened, familiar hand were running itself across a wrinkled sheet. The corners and ripples of her nerves disappear. “Bane.” Wishbone takes a few steps past and around the protection of the cactus and the afternoon sun catches the mahogany of her curves.
“I got bored.” There is only so much newness a wanderer can absorb — even a passionate one — before they crave home. It might forever be a reckless battle: settle into the comfortable curves of home, desire the thrill of discovery and adventure, spend some time discovering and adventuring, desire the comfortable curves of home, and return home. For a flickering moment, Wishbone wonders if there is enough of Beqanna to sate her wandering heart and her wild spirit. She pushes those thoughts aside in favor of the truth — she is back now.
Her gaze scans his body now, searching for the markings time must have surely put on him. “You look older.” A pause. “You’re still king.” It’s a statement rather than a question or an accusation. She’d heard the whispers on her way to him. “It sounds like you’re doing better than I did. Your dad would be proud.” Wishbone doesn’t mean to get sentimental, but the sight of his face (if not slightly older and more mature) dredges up the memories of their childhood and, therefore, their parents. A slight frown tugs at one corner of her sable mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring him up.” She knows it’s a tender topic.
In fact, she can think of many times she would have drowned (or been burnt alive or broken a leg or choked or suffocated or sliced her skin open) if Wolfbane hadn’t been there. A smile comes to her mouth from beneath the scant shadow of the cactus at the thought of how annoyed he must have been, always running to save the wild girl that taunted death closer. He must have been so weary. Wishbone had thought he’d leave her in the days of their youth, choosing instead to pursue some meek, gentle mare who would be the makings of a mother for his children. He hadn’t, at least in those days, and their young friendship had blossomed into something crafted with warmth and even warmer touches beneath the light of a Nerinian glow-worm cavern.
The autumn breeze brings the scent of familiarity; the musk and limestone of him drags her away from her nostalgia and worry. Amber eyes catch against olive ones. His voice soothes the last of her anxiety away, as though a roughened, familiar hand were running itself across a wrinkled sheet. The corners and ripples of her nerves disappear. “Bane.” Wishbone takes a few steps past and around the protection of the cactus and the afternoon sun catches the mahogany of her curves.
“I got bored.” There is only so much newness a wanderer can absorb — even a passionate one — before they crave home. It might forever be a reckless battle: settle into the comfortable curves of home, desire the thrill of discovery and adventure, spend some time discovering and adventuring, desire the comfortable curves of home, and return home. For a flickering moment, Wishbone wonders if there is enough of Beqanna to sate her wandering heart and her wild spirit. She pushes those thoughts aside in favor of the truth — she is back now.
Her gaze scans his body now, searching for the markings time must have surely put on him. “You look older.” A pause. “You’re still king.” It’s a statement rather than a question or an accusation. She’d heard the whispers on her way to him. “It sounds like you’re doing better than I did. Your dad would be proud.” Wishbone doesn’t mean to get sentimental, but the sight of his face (if not slightly older and more mature) dredges up the memories of their childhood and, therefore, their parents. A slight frown tugs at one corner of her sable mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring him up.” She knows it’s a tender topic.
@[Wolfbane] ~rambling, awkward bone~