LUSEA
i could recognize him by touch alone, by smell
i would know him blind,
In a surprising show of strength and dominance he flips me onto my back, and honestly? I don't hate it. It's good to see a little bit of fire, to have him fight back, especially after he took my blow so easily, his lip splitting in a cascade of blood. Black blood, and it just isn't natural, but at least it's tinged with a little bit of red. A little bit of him beneath it all.
A little bit of crimson hope.
He has me pinned, but I'm not scared. The most obvious reason is, of course, because I can easily slam a knee into his balls if he decides to try anything I don't like. But more than that, glaring up at his black rimmed eyes, I simply cannot find it in myself to be afraid of him. Afraid for him? Yes. Afraid for us? Absolutely. But I know - I know - deep down below it all, beneath the trauma and the fury and the hurt, that he would never have wounded me without a reason. That if he were himself, this never would have happened.
Which begs the question: is this the Sunny I know and love? Is that man - that radiant, spectacular, furious, rebellious, brutally strong mess of a man - even still alive?
"And is there hope for us, Sunjata?" It's a snarl, low and dangerous, rough and rolling in our native tongue. Is there hope for us- or does he still yearn for her, ache for her, lust for her? I can feel my expression becoming vulnerable, anger taking the place of steely cool. There are tears in my eyes, and I press against him, a feeble attempt to set myself free. "I crossed death itself to find you, and now I don't even know who you are. Where's the hope in that?"
A little bit of crimson hope.
He has me pinned, but I'm not scared. The most obvious reason is, of course, because I can easily slam a knee into his balls if he decides to try anything I don't like. But more than that, glaring up at his black rimmed eyes, I simply cannot find it in myself to be afraid of him. Afraid for him? Yes. Afraid for us? Absolutely. But I know - I know - deep down below it all, beneath the trauma and the fury and the hurt, that he would never have wounded me without a reason. That if he were himself, this never would have happened.
Which begs the question: is this the Sunny I know and love? Is that man - that radiant, spectacular, furious, rebellious, brutally strong mess of a man - even still alive?
"And is there hope for us, Sunjata?" It's a snarl, low and dangerous, rough and rolling in our native tongue. Is there hope for us- or does he still yearn for her, ache for her, lust for her? I can feel my expression becoming vulnerable, anger taking the place of steely cool. There are tears in my eyes, and I press against him, a feeble attempt to set myself free. "I crossed death itself to find you, and now I don't even know who you are. Where's the hope in that?"
i would know him in death,
at the end of the world
SUNJATA
