SWORD
we watched the night under moonlight mixed in ocean air
the salty breeze tickled our necks
and we counted galaxies forgetting boundaries,
imagined reaching for them,
like for each other
No drums of war but the consequential pulse and persistence of victory, that they were alive, that they weren’t torn apart or ripped into pieces, that ash-coated and ember-embedded lungs didn’t last forever – a contagious anomaly of mischief and ruffian exploits. He couldn’t sink here, even with the mud chasing at his ankles, couldn’t mire himself here, root and anchor and wait for the mire to choke, rasp, and suffocate; saluting, embracing, the marks of her hands down the pathway of his frame. They held more meaning and signatures, emblems and banners, than the rest of the scars lining flesh and bone; her gotcha exhalation an anointing, consecration, he didn’t oppose. Yes, you do; had him, had him, had him –
The squealing ignited his movements into absolute devilry, quick, scorching maneuvers along his familiar fields, eyes catching on more decadence across patchworks of melted rime and thawing grass. Her kicking, flailing feet caused the slightest inhale, a catch in his breath, before ignoring it altogether; muscle and sinew smug, haughty, superior undulations, affording and permitting the potential bruises for mischief and unraveling endeavors. The Sword held no form of protest other than a sharpened gasp as cold feet paraded their way beneath his shirt and across his abdomen. He might’ve earned the snap of surprise; an irreverent sensation threading its way along his features, plan forming and reshaping as he carried her along, one palm purposefully snaking along her waist, fingers light, ticklish caresses.
Then, when he thought he’d found the perfect location, he lifted her off his shoulder, contorted and covered in the ricocheted, applied mud, and thereafter, when her feet might have been dangling, hovering over the surface, went to drop her into a larger expanse of puddles – a roar of laughter in his chest, in his lungs.
The squealing ignited his movements into absolute devilry, quick, scorching maneuvers along his familiar fields, eyes catching on more decadence across patchworks of melted rime and thawing grass. Her kicking, flailing feet caused the slightest inhale, a catch in his breath, before ignoring it altogether; muscle and sinew smug, haughty, superior undulations, affording and permitting the potential bruises for mischief and unraveling endeavors. The Sword held no form of protest other than a sharpened gasp as cold feet paraded their way beneath his shirt and across his abdomen. He might’ve earned the snap of surprise; an irreverent sensation threading its way along his features, plan forming and reshaping as he carried her along, one palm purposefully snaking along her waist, fingers light, ticklish caresses.
Then, when he thought he’d found the perfect location, he lifted her off his shoulder, contorted and covered in the ricocheted, applied mud, and thereafter, when her feet might have been dangling, hovering over the surface, went to drop her into a larger expanse of puddles – a roar of laughter in his chest, in his lungs.
SHIELD
the stars lined our heartbeats,
and we fell
so much harder,
than we ever had
before
