COLT
I'm homesick for somewhere that doesn't exist
For someone I'm still learning to miss
Said goodbye, wasn't ready yet
Only see you in this silhouette
For someone I'm still learning to miss
Said goodbye, wasn't ready yet
Only see you in this silhouette
She in fact did not expect him to still be here, or to be grinning at all his charm all over again. She wouldn't have said half of what she did if that'd even been an idea entertained in her mind, but it felt so inevitable, with him turning and her pushing, that this would be the last. She figured she’d get drunk on her porch until something nearly like sleep tucked her in, then wake to a blanket of dogs and the blood of a new day, resolve building up around the hurt. She might have found a thrown shot glass in the yard two days later, probably aimed at the stars and all their lingering light.
She sure as hell hadn’t expected to pull him back, let alone for him to turn to it. She's still not sure what to do with it, but the only drink she's got in hand now is him, and that's about as far as she'd like to think right now.
He manages to find all the cracks that've spiderwebbed out and sets into them like glue, easing the strain of holding all the edges together into something trying hard to be whole. Each worry gradually smooths under the brush of his thumb, and all the softness of his words cradle against her roughness until she's something you can touch again without fear of picking up a sliver.
So when he leans in and sets his hand against the corner of her waist, she doesn't withdraw. She's still though, the hair on the back of her neck standing on tiptoe at the graze of his exhale, the conspiratorial hum of his words a velvet wrapped blade that drags across her. He had the nerve to believe she didn't miss him?
A smirk sneaks in on her grin, dropping it to something sly with the memory of that conversation. She’s revisited that moment on the beach so many times, her old tease about him recognizing all the slopes of sand rings hollow now—she could find her way back like any backroad home. The hand he doesn't have a hold of presses onto his chest as her voice drawls too sweetly, "When an' where sweetheart?"
She sure as hell hadn’t expected to pull him back, let alone for him to turn to it. She's still not sure what to do with it, but the only drink she's got in hand now is him, and that's about as far as she'd like to think right now.
He manages to find all the cracks that've spiderwebbed out and sets into them like glue, easing the strain of holding all the edges together into something trying hard to be whole. Each worry gradually smooths under the brush of his thumb, and all the softness of his words cradle against her roughness until she's something you can touch again without fear of picking up a sliver.
So when he leans in and sets his hand against the corner of her waist, she doesn't withdraw. She's still though, the hair on the back of her neck standing on tiptoe at the graze of his exhale, the conspiratorial hum of his words a velvet wrapped blade that drags across her. He had the nerve to believe she didn't miss him?
A smirk sneaks in on her grin, dropping it to something sly with the memory of that conversation. She’s revisited that moment on the beach so many times, her old tease about him recognizing all the slopes of sand rings hollow now—she could find her way back like any backroad home. The hand he doesn't have a hold of presses onto his chest as her voice drawls too sweetly, "When an' where sweetheart?"
I'm homesick for conversations I would avoid
And now I miss the sound of your voice
Now there's nothing but a shadow left
So I'll just keep on chasing shadows of you
And now I miss the sound of your voice
Now there's nothing but a shadow left
So I'll just keep on chasing shadows of you
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
