DEIMOS
Succumbed to sleep the moment his head hit the mattress; coaxed by exhaustion, by fatigue, by a mental and physical weight crouched upon his shoulders, splintering and fissuring down his neck, his spine, his brawn. It was a void tended and stoked by passing days and webbed designs, a thousand calamities brandishing down into his machinations, fires to be put out, damage to be dealt, things to be found along his scattered soul. He might not have moved for hours, except moons were coaxing and requirements were daunting, always in the back of his mind: no dreams to savor, no nightmares quaking (they were already living in one).
Movement along his brow, a sweeping turn of his hair over skin, fingers stroking enticed and inveigled an awakening. Were he in some other land, other world, it would’ve been an immediate tensing, taut and rigid, composed into warrior upheavals and enamel the moment his eyes flickered open, gazing upon the world as if it were an adversary, as if everything was an enemy.
But he remembered where he was, and who it would be.
In another time, another place, he would’ve leaned in, taken every ministration and caress for what it was worth (everything), but they couldn’t live so languidly now, caught in the haze, snares, and traps. His eyes slowly opened, piercing depths immediately searching for her in the shadows, in the press of dusk and moonlight contorting through the windows. Then the Sword raised his head, blinking away the mystified stupor that came along with fogs and labyrinths, shaking it once or twice, as if trying to recall reality. But it was this for now. He hadn’t heard her sob or the choking, the smothering of it, deep in her throat. She hadn’t heard all his suffocated anguish either; pummeled and crumpled into his chest. “How are you?” slipped from his mouth, a whisper, as if his presence disturbed – fingers reaching instinctively for hers, a clench, a grasp, a tie to corporeal bonds.
Movement along his brow, a sweeping turn of his hair over skin, fingers stroking enticed and inveigled an awakening. Were he in some other land, other world, it would’ve been an immediate tensing, taut and rigid, composed into warrior upheavals and enamel the moment his eyes flickered open, gazing upon the world as if it were an adversary, as if everything was an enemy.
But he remembered where he was, and who it would be.
In another time, another place, he would’ve leaned in, taken every ministration and caress for what it was worth (everything), but they couldn’t live so languidly now, caught in the haze, snares, and traps. His eyes slowly opened, piercing depths immediately searching for her in the shadows, in the press of dusk and moonlight contorting through the windows. Then the Sword raised his head, blinking away the mystified stupor that came along with fogs and labyrinths, shaking it once or twice, as if trying to recall reality. But it was this for now. He hadn’t heard her sob or the choking, the smothering of it, deep in her throat. She hadn’t heard all his suffocated anguish either; pummeled and crumpled into his chest. “How are you?” slipped from his mouth, a whisper, as if his presence disturbed – fingers reaching instinctively for hers, a clench, a grasp, a tie to corporeal bonds.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
