DEIMOS
There’d been so many instances where he’d purposefully hurt others; carving a niche into their sides, bone-deep lacerations pierced, pressing, punctured into their lungs, into their entities, for those noxious shades of vengeance, for those brutal, callous wakes of rebuttal. But it still surprised him that she thought him distrusting, that there was a residual ache in their devotion to one another; that he’d somehow continued to step in the same errant display. His actions had always been far more than his words, expressions of eloquence in either battle, survival, or affection; emboldened, courageous, or villainous. The rest were tucked into darker alcoves, into shadows, into places where he could retreat, evade, or fissure under his own merits and wills, where the world wouldn’t see shaking hands or clenched fists, where he could drown alone, clustered in his immorality and sins. But this world kept plucking at him, accepting him, tolerating him, and in return the uncertainty weighed more heavily than before, treading foreign waters, gazing into endless skies, paralyzed by the unknown.
And she seemed angry, upset, because he remained the unattainable enigma, despite his motives, his aspirations, his dominion. All the walls he’d thought down were apparently still in her way, and his eyes cast back towards her, a multitude of shame burgeoning on his shoulders, throughout his being. “I am sorry.” He was; sorry he was inept and withdrawn, sorry he wasn’t enough, sorry that no matter what he seemed to do, it wasn’t worth anything. He felt defeated, rusted, languished, in her anger, in the raw bite of rancor, no efforts to rise into the fire again or to wander in the colder depths of his glacial capabilities. He stayed stagnant in the depths, in the fathoms, of frustration at himself, for all the missed occasions and opportunities, for the ways he’d seemingly left her without an anchor, without anything to grasp, to hold onto. “I do trust you, otherwise I would not be here.” Without his guard. Without his makeshift armor. Without anything but the tenacity in his marrow and the sorrow in his soul. He nearly said I will be better again, could feel it coiling across his tongue, desperate to convey that he would try; but he had an inclination she would deny it again. Hate its meaning, its sentiments, its desperation.
Because he was a fool, and she must’ve seen it when she stared at him, when she glanced his way, when his entity orbited around her presence.
What he needed?
The question caused his brows to furrow, the inquiry confusing him. He’d thought it’d obvious – but perhaps nothing ever was with him. His inward machinations not exposed, not unfurled, not unraveled, until it seemed too late. His gaze, red-rimmed too, followed hers, head raised as her hand came closer, daring to lean into it, to touch, to revel, to savor, to breathe. For a man who’d spent lifetimes scraping his machinations into the earth, into kingdoms, into realms, into grasping, avaricious claws, his wants, his yearnings, his desires, had been sculpted, carved, and reshaped. Different oeuvres, different masterpieces, a cold, darkened heart warmed by the sun and the stars. She could have his feelings, his thoughts: the ravages of his emotions spiraled and curled, lacquered in the depths of his love and adoration, never shallow, but deep, fathomless depths, a wealth, a fountain, an unending sea, a cosmos, a galaxy, following after her in waves beyond their bond. “You. I only need you.” Not a whisper, but a solid statement, as if that’d been the only thing all along.
And she seemed angry, upset, because he remained the unattainable enigma, despite his motives, his aspirations, his dominion. All the walls he’d thought down were apparently still in her way, and his eyes cast back towards her, a multitude of shame burgeoning on his shoulders, throughout his being. “I am sorry.” He was; sorry he was inept and withdrawn, sorry he wasn’t enough, sorry that no matter what he seemed to do, it wasn’t worth anything. He felt defeated, rusted, languished, in her anger, in the raw bite of rancor, no efforts to rise into the fire again or to wander in the colder depths of his glacial capabilities. He stayed stagnant in the depths, in the fathoms, of frustration at himself, for all the missed occasions and opportunities, for the ways he’d seemingly left her without an anchor, without anything to grasp, to hold onto. “I do trust you, otherwise I would not be here.” Without his guard. Without his makeshift armor. Without anything but the tenacity in his marrow and the sorrow in his soul. He nearly said I will be better again, could feel it coiling across his tongue, desperate to convey that he would try; but he had an inclination she would deny it again. Hate its meaning, its sentiments, its desperation.
Because he was a fool, and she must’ve seen it when she stared at him, when she glanced his way, when his entity orbited around her presence.
What he needed?
The question caused his brows to furrow, the inquiry confusing him. He’d thought it’d obvious – but perhaps nothing ever was with him. His inward machinations not exposed, not unfurled, not unraveled, until it seemed too late. His gaze, red-rimmed too, followed hers, head raised as her hand came closer, daring to lean into it, to touch, to revel, to savor, to breathe. For a man who’d spent lifetimes scraping his machinations into the earth, into kingdoms, into realms, into grasping, avaricious claws, his wants, his yearnings, his desires, had been sculpted, carved, and reshaped. Different oeuvres, different masterpieces, a cold, darkened heart warmed by the sun and the stars. She could have his feelings, his thoughts: the ravages of his emotions spiraled and curled, lacquered in the depths of his love and adoration, never shallow, but deep, fathomless depths, a wealth, a fountain, an unending sea, a cosmos, a galaxy, following after her in waves beyond their bond. “You. I only need you.” Not a whisper, but a solid statement, as if that’d been the only thing all along.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
