I’m getting closer everyday to letting this world win.
Voices echo against the stillness around me, but I hardly notice. They’re no more than scarce whispers. Hushed lullabies when compared to the constant ringing in my head. In my ears. Blinding flashes akin to sudden shouts that make the back of my eyes protest until they’re forced to close. It’s reflex. And as I sit there, waiting for the dizziness to subside and sound to return, I realize that…
It’s nice to have a reason other than terror to shut my eyes.
She breathed, slow and measured as thunder, testing how the world felt now that the tempest had gone and she’d weathered the wildness of it. She’d always been strong—enough to bend and twist over herself without snapping.
Stronger now though, to know that she could stand again after.
Three words spoken, before I fold her into my arms, and still, the rain continues to fall; the light from the candles continue to flicker, spilling over wooden floorboards and old, familiar walls that remain unchanged, as if they haven’t just witnessed how the last few seconds have shifted my entire life into another course.
It’s been so long since he’s been happy, and though his chest aches, that, too will pass.
Time does heal after all.
It’s harder than he expects — cutting out the tender, rotting pieces of him where he once allowed her to make a home. Strange that it should hurt, since she’s already migrated to another. Stranger, still, that he should falter over a relationship she threw away so easily. But there’s something profoundly sad about hollowness, and something frighteningly toxic about being the only one left behind.
When her face clouds over and his voice gets trapped somewhere between the tightness of his throat and a swollen emotion he cannot name, all he can think about are words — and how utterly useless they are in the face of his own sudden, irrational desire to immolate this entire world to the ground… because how dare they make her look like this? What right do they have to make her mouth tilt into a pained grimace? Stocking stones on her back like she isn’t already staggering under the weight of what she carries.
He doesn’t think it possible for his entire world to break and remake itself within the span of an hour, but after a few heated confessions, here he stands — not new, but feeling very much like it.
Love is a peculiar thing.
He can hardly handle the enormity packed into the word. It’s overwhelming, like a flood of sunshine after a long night; yet it’s small as well, like the stars have all been packed into one person to shower them in brilliance.
We walk, and dirt succumbs under us through no desire of it’s own. Microbes slip into the grooves beneath our shoes, dying, carried out into the unknown. And yet you think so far and so large when trying to find suffering.
We were both wrong. So, why does it feel like I’m the only one to blame?