All that matters is you, and that you exist here with me tonight.
I will never tire of writing these scrawls.
Your affection extends past skin and bone, finding stray streaks of color where I thought only white remained, and slowly, without fear, you hauled them back to the surface.
I closed my eyes, expecting hurt. Fresh and biting. Yet when the seconds ticked on and it never came, I wonder why those moments of frightful expectation were more agonizing than the pain itself.
I know its okay to show frailty, to bare that tender spot I hide somewhere deep in my marrow– you’ll accept it. As you always have. But, if given the choice, I’d rather you see me strong.
I don’t understand why so many people think I always know just what to say. Sure, I weave words. But I can’t give you peace, only stories of it.
I think of you.
You and little else.
What more would you ask of me?
I’ve placed this into two categories because I’m not quite sure where it belongs. I may use it in a future story… hmm. Anyway.
She pauses here and there without reason, drawing in a breath before grinning into his mouth, and the delight he feels then is a physical thing. Too soft and too tender for him to touch. Not yet.
His hands are still rough, his self esteem, cutting. He isn’t ready. This is good as it is.
It also isn’t enough.
She doesn’t wish to rise, doesn’t wish to trudge through another day, but then she peers at her reflection, at each wrinkle of past and finished hardship, and suddenly, her wishes don’t matter at all.
Time heals, or so it goes.
After all these years, I think my wounds may be infected.
I’ve got an ashtray with your name on it and a blanket in the trunk as warm and encompassing as dribbling honey…
Just say the word.