the saints are coming // the saints are coming
i say no matter how i try // i realize there's no reply
With hungry eyes, he watches the pale figure near. He’s still too young and naïve to understand the potential of danger, and thus, it is with eager bleating that he greets her approach. She is movement and life whereas there had been nothing but stillness before, and that motion drew and kept his attention quickly. He shivers as her muzzle makes contact with his, more from surprise at the warmth of her breath and softness of her skin than anything else. His little nostrils twitch, and with a deep inhale, he drinks up her scent.
“Étienne,” he bleats, though he himself is unaware of the source of the word. Somewhere deep in in the depth of his mind, he recalls the sound repeated to him, over and over, each time in a loving, sincere womanly tone. “Étienne,” he coos again, not knowing what else to say, while his big black eyes follow her each and every movement.
As she begins to clean him, he finds his little lips curling into a happy smile. He lets out another small whimper as he pushes himself closer to her. She is warm, he realizes, whatever she’s doing… it feels so good! He lifts his little head higher up, and with a happy grunt, he buries his muzzle into her coat with content, his hunger momentarily forgotten.
