There are things little like love in this world. Breathing in the scent of a loved one who has been gone for a long time, imprinting them upon your mind, and within your heart. Being able to wrap them into your heart, and within your arms—a meeting of minds and hearts. There is little in this world like knowing you hold the heart of someone else in your hands, and that they hold yours in return. The careful balance of being able to juggle life, taking care to put this one person before yourself at the cost of your own happiness.
This is what Manhattan had remembered upon opening his nostrils and taking in what he could of October’s being, wrapping himself around her until they were of one flesh. He was within her, and she was within him. So entranced was he with the situation, the simple sake of having found a part of himself that he’d forgotten (nee—left behind all those years ago when he stole away in the middle of the night, never looking back to see what he was abandoning), that her breath against his shoulder barely registered through his newfound
What is this?-
Manhattan broke the embrace, pinned his ears to his skull and rotated around to see the intruder. His kind was unfamiliar to the liver chestnut stallion, but the stench of the dead was all over him, and that was a smell that as universal to plants as they were to man. Rotating his hips, Manhattan took a stance, swinging his tail over October’s back, and taking a paced step in front of her ever so slightly as to cover her exposed shoulder. This pose was as protective as it was ownership—this woman was his, and he would protect her… what was left of her.
He would help rebuilt that which he had destroyed. She would never know the pain of abandonment again.
Manhattan was agitated, and this was clear to the black stallion with the way he took his stance. He curled back his lips and bore his teeth at the stink of the grave, practically hissing at the intruder. “I do not know who you are, but if you are here for her, then you might want to turn around now.”
MANHATTAN
Baby, I'm from New York,
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of;
there's nothing you can't do.
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of;
there's nothing you can't do.