01-16-2018, 02:40 PM
She has not contemplated how he might react to her touch. It is an age-old greeting between horses. Some have forgotten it, it is so old. Some have thrown it away, discarding it in favor of less genuine gestures. Words have taken the place of touch. Yet Saedís does not let it slip away. She loves words, loves forming them from her tongue, feeling them shaped by her lips. But more than that, even, she loves the feel of skin against hers, warm and familiar, smooth and soft.
Perhaps in that – they are not so different.
But Saedís does not question his shiver. Rather, she meets those too-bright eyes. My little dreamer mare is forever filled with a shimmering light, radiating it from her very smile, her bright, warm eyes. Saedís learns his face before closing her eyes against it. In this new darkness, she takes a deep breath, embracing and memorizing Garbage´s scent as it meets her nostrils.
”It scares me” she admits, ”the thought of being all alone in the world”
”Garbage?” She echoes then with a soft smile, tilting her head to the side so that her forelock slips before her face. But Saedís is too full of whimsical dreams to think of names. Instead she allows herself to be lost in his eyes. ”What happened to your eyes?”
He holds the butterfly that is Saedís, but she is willingly captivated. Something about him brings out a ripple of unbridled curiosity through her, she wants to know if he too – calls this meadow home.
”I suppose you could say I live here. But it is not my home” she answers his question, and assumes he will understand what she means. She has no real desire to dredge up her past. Not here, not now – when the past is irrelevant as they, two young horses, merely bask in the crisp, spring morning, thinking of the complexity of names, the dread of solitude, and the infinite possibility of a stranger.
”Are you from here?”