your hands are scarred from murder

SUNJATA

the flood

with every breath and every intake
tip toe further away

Of course he sees her when she arrives through the back door, slipping past the bar to her room. He might be drinking a bit more, smoking a bit more than usual as well, but he’d always spot her. He’d been listening to a patron drone on and on about the heat, the way there wasn’t a good way to cool off within the Grounds, and to be honest he finds it rather trivial. But she’s a good distraction for him to slip away, most of the regulars realizing now that they’re together. And that Sunjata hadn’t seen her for a while.

So he has someone else cover for the rest of the night, slips away with a glass in his hand only about three fourths of the way full, and a cigarette perched between the fingers that hold onto the glass. He doesn’t bother with knocking when he reaches the door, slipping it open and stepping within to see her sitting at a chair, trying to peel the hunting leathers from her person. “Maea.” He hums quietly to her, in a sort of greeting, before setting the glass on the table and takes a drag from the cigarette as he does a somewhat visual check to see how she is.

“What happened?” He asks in a puff of smoke, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, crouching down before her and resting a hand along her leg — the other reaching up to cup her cheek. ’Where did you go? Are you okay?’

further away from this mistake
i'm no savior, i'm no saint