02-18-2017, 09:10 PM
He thinks she doesn’t notice when he leaves her in the night, thinks she does not stir from even the deepest sleep when suddenly his heat abandons her and cool air rushes in to take his place. But he is in her heart, he is beneath her skin, he is the marrow in her bones, and when he leaves, she knows, because a piece of her soul goes with him. She is splintered in his absence, picked apart by agile fingers, peeled open to her insides until all she is is hurt and pain and quiet uncertainty, laid bare for the universe to see.
But he is back before morning, always before morning, and when he returns to her side she does not stir, does not open her eyes, does not force the truth from him when he is so clearly set on hiding it from her. It is enough to be curled beside him, to be nestled against his dark and heat and skin that always smells so much like brimstone these days. But the uncertainty is cold and creeping in her veins, and each night is a new secret, each secret a new piece of glass in her chest. She does not know why he cannot lay beside her through the night, why it is not enough to drape his neck across her back and greet the darkness with her lips pressed affectionately to his temple, but it is not, and he remains ever-restless and she never quite able to sooth him.
This morning is different, though, and when she lifts her head from such restless sleep, it is to greet a morning drenched in gold and orange. It is beautiful and same, a duplicate of so many before it but for one excruciating detail; she is alone. At once she is to her feet, swaying slightly in place until all the cold and nighttime stiffness had fled her bones, and then she is pushing forward and away, deeper into Tephra in search of a face that will soothe the fear burning in her chest. She does not get far before she finds him though, only a few unsteady strides before he appears around a hill, soaked in gold and pink and the colors of the sky above them. I’m sorry. He says and he is breathless, aching. But she dismisses the apology with a quick shake of her small, dark head, moving swiftly to his side. “Offspring.” She says, she breathes, she whispers like a prayer as she crushes herself against him.
For several long moments she does not move from him, does not pull away from where she is tucked and leaning into the strength of his chest, from where her face is pressed cheek-first to the hard line of his sloping shoulder. She waits until that fear fueled fire has burned out in her chest, until her heart is a quiet, easy rhythm where it presses against him, until she can breathe without gasping, speak without a tremor in her voice. Only then can she pull away, and she does, but only far enough to see his face, to reach up with gentle lips to erase the lines of worry and tension she finds there. In every hollow she leaves a kiss, every point of bone and even the furrows on his brow. You are mine, she reminds him without words, I am yours.
But then she does speak, pulls her mouth from where it explores the lines of such a beautiful face, and asks the hardest question of all, the one that weighs most heavily on her heart while she lies awake and missing him each night. “Why won’t you let me in, Offspring.” Her voice is soft and sad, wilted at the edges like a faded blue flower, and when she eases closer again it is to press her mouth to his chest, his heart. “I know I’m in there,” a pause and a frown, though her face is still beautiful even in such exquisite pain, “so let me in here, too.” Her face lifts to him, gentle and imploring, and she reaches out to brush his forelock aside, to touch those dark lips to an even darker forehead, an even darker mind below that. "Trust me."
i am well aware of the shadows in my heart
But he is back before morning, always before morning, and when he returns to her side she does not stir, does not open her eyes, does not force the truth from him when he is so clearly set on hiding it from her. It is enough to be curled beside him, to be nestled against his dark and heat and skin that always smells so much like brimstone these days. But the uncertainty is cold and creeping in her veins, and each night is a new secret, each secret a new piece of glass in her chest. She does not know why he cannot lay beside her through the night, why it is not enough to drape his neck across her back and greet the darkness with her lips pressed affectionately to his temple, but it is not, and he remains ever-restless and she never quite able to sooth him.
This morning is different, though, and when she lifts her head from such restless sleep, it is to greet a morning drenched in gold and orange. It is beautiful and same, a duplicate of so many before it but for one excruciating detail; she is alone. At once she is to her feet, swaying slightly in place until all the cold and nighttime stiffness had fled her bones, and then she is pushing forward and away, deeper into Tephra in search of a face that will soothe the fear burning in her chest. She does not get far before she finds him though, only a few unsteady strides before he appears around a hill, soaked in gold and pink and the colors of the sky above them. I’m sorry. He says and he is breathless, aching. But she dismisses the apology with a quick shake of her small, dark head, moving swiftly to his side. “Offspring.” She says, she breathes, she whispers like a prayer as she crushes herself against him.
For several long moments she does not move from him, does not pull away from where she is tucked and leaning into the strength of his chest, from where her face is pressed cheek-first to the hard line of his sloping shoulder. She waits until that fear fueled fire has burned out in her chest, until her heart is a quiet, easy rhythm where it presses against him, until she can breathe without gasping, speak without a tremor in her voice. Only then can she pull away, and she does, but only far enough to see his face, to reach up with gentle lips to erase the lines of worry and tension she finds there. In every hollow she leaves a kiss, every point of bone and even the furrows on his brow. You are mine, she reminds him without words, I am yours.
But then she does speak, pulls her mouth from where it explores the lines of such a beautiful face, and asks the hardest question of all, the one that weighs most heavily on her heart while she lies awake and missing him each night. “Why won’t you let me in, Offspring.” Her voice is soft and sad, wilted at the edges like a faded blue flower, and when she eases closer again it is to press her mouth to his chest, his heart. “I know I’m in there,” a pause and a frown, though her face is still beautiful even in such exquisite pain, “so let me in here, too.” Her face lifts to him, gentle and imploring, and she reaches out to brush his forelock aside, to touch those dark lips to an even darker forehead, an even darker mind below that. "Trust me."