06-07-2020, 02:55 PM
”I’ve got the kerosene and the desire,
I’m trying to start a flame in the heart of the night.”
She has never known any kind of heartache or pain; no kind of hardship at all, really. She had been born to two parents that loved her and each other, and that was what she had grown up with. She has seen sadness, though. She has seen it in the golden tears that stream continuously down her father’s face. She has seen it hiding in her mother’s eyes for reasons she can never discern. She has seen it, and though she has never felt it, she has learned to recognize it.
She sees it there, before he shields it away from her, and though it makes her heart clench she decides to not press the matter further. Sadness does not always like to be seen, she knows this already. And if he does not want her to see it then she will pretend that she didn’t.
“Oh,” she says, in a kind of dubious acceptance, her brown eyes searching the gold of his for the truth. But she says nothing, and instead her silver lips turn into a smile. “I guess I am. I’ve always liked the morning. It’s quiet.” She looks at the jaguar spots that adorn his body, and how they stand so starkly against the gold coloring of his coat. She wonders what it would be like, to be colored so vibrantly – to not simply be the color of mists and fog, something easily overlooked. “My name is Keepsake,” she offers him, her voice still quiet, venturing on the end of shy, but in a rare show of boldness she tells him, “You have pretty eyes.”
She sees it there, before he shields it away from her, and though it makes her heart clench she decides to not press the matter further. Sadness does not always like to be seen, she knows this already. And if he does not want her to see it then she will pretend that she didn’t.
“Oh,” she says, in a kind of dubious acceptance, her brown eyes searching the gold of his for the truth. But she says nothing, and instead her silver lips turn into a smile. “I guess I am. I’ve always liked the morning. It’s quiet.” She looks at the jaguar spots that adorn his body, and how they stand so starkly against the gold coloring of his coat. She wonders what it would be like, to be colored so vibrantly – to not simply be the color of mists and fog, something easily overlooked. “My name is Keepsake,” she offers him, her voice still quiet, venturing on the end of shy, but in a rare show of boldness she tells him, “You have pretty eyes.”
keepsake