awake my soul | isle

[Offspring]

lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all.
but lend me your heart and i'll just let you fall.

   And then, she was gone as suddenly as she had appeared. 

  He was left breathless, his mind a haze of confusion and frustration and angst that had begun to sink in to the deepest parts of him - the pit of his heart; the marrow of his bones. He was left bathing in the sunlight, the warmth radiating from the sun and leaving his dark, marred flesh with beads of sweat, and yet he felt as if he'd been shrouded in darkness. He was abruptly left without her gentle touch, her soft breath and unfinished caresses, and it left behind a shadow in its wake. He followed her as she moved slowly to the beckoning solace of the quiet thicket, disappearing from his sight. She was only a faint memory now, though her scent still permeated the air, cloaking his senses as he struggled to withhold it and savor it for as long as he could.

   He knew of the pain in her eyes this time; he had seen it clear as day. She was fearful, as was he. She had stripped away small pieces of him within the hours of their first spoken words, and he had taken a piece of her in return. He knew of her deepest, darkest secret, though she knew not of his own. He would keep that very secret under lock and key if he were to ever see her again - she had left him after the briefest kiss; and he did not dare bring up his lonely, terribly existence for fear she would flee again. It was not so simple, though. He ached for her company in the days and even weeks following - every slight movement stirred him from the depths of his uneasiness, causing his heart to throb in anticipation. 

   Each time, he was doused in the same overwhelming pool of disappointment, and it began to sour his mood. He searched for her, but to no avail. Her scent had long since faded, and he angrily chastised himself often for it. Why had he not followed her when he had the chance? What use would it have been if he had? She had made it clear that goodbye was all that she could offer him; why did he allow himself to linger on it so long? He would cycle through the individual stages of grief. Regretful one moment, furious the next. He lumbered around the icy confines of the flatland and sulked through the open, fresh fields of the meadow, lost in his own wretchedness as he battled his mind and heart.

   You know how it ends; how it always ends, He would think to himself, you do not deserve it. You cannot do this again. And so what if he had? She wanted nothing to do with him, that much had been obvious. He would come to accept this, and soon the longing would fade away.

   Soon, he had buried the thought of her away with the rest, relinquishing his mind to the comforting embrace of nothingness that he was now lost in. His eyes of crimson now seemed a shade darker as he peered out onto the land that lay before him, though he was staring at nothing in particular and did not allow his mind to linger on any one single thing for long. He lets himself fade away into the abyss of his own mind, trapping his innermost thoughts of pining woe away (for he did not love her, no, but he could, and he hadn't in so long, it felt so devastating to have even the most remote possibility of it taken away from him).

   Just then, the rolling clouds overhead begin to rumble and roar with the threatening onslaught of rain, rousing him from the depths of his blurry thoughts. He gazes towards the sky and its shapeless, eerie shade of gray, peering from between the woven tendrils of coal-painted hair, deciding at once to move into the thicket of pines mere feet behind him. He buries himself into the brush, his massive stature moving slowly in between the aging bark, scratching his scar-inflicted flesh against the trees. His steps are heavy as his limbs carrying his monolithic frame, pounding onto the dried leaves and twigs, crushing them beneath his monstrous weight. He focuses on the soft cracks of their splitting atoms, savors the rustling of the gusts that whistle between the leaves, that ways the pines overhead.

   And then it comes.

   The rain, with its shattering, shimmering splendor, washes over the forest, drenching it in its dampness. It is not long before the weight of the droplets weigh heavily on the spindly branches, soaking him through as well. He hardly notices; the thunder grumbles above and rattles the earth below, but he remains, rooted in a single spot. His nostrils fill with the overwhelming scent of flora and fauna, overwhelming him in its heady aroma. He knows it so well, he has milled over it for weeks on end after she had parted from him and here it was.

   There it was, for now it is gone, washed away by the rainfall, replaced instead with the soft sullenness of spring. You're imagining things, he tells himself, though deep down he knows that can't be. She's gone.

   But as his unusually dark pelt stains an even darker, inky black from the moisture that permeates his skin, as he loses himself again to the rhythmic pounding of pain on the canopy overhead, he cannot help but to hope that he will find her again.

OFFSPRING