Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
But he didn’t try to keep her - and maybe that was where the lines had been drawn all along. Perhaps she lacked value, fundamentals, or simply didn’t see things the way he did. Similar, and oh so different, flanked by impulsivity and then running parallel on the wake and weight of decisions made. And if he didn’t care – neither should she. Either way, it was all the more enlightening in his silence. In the midst of truth and despair, anguish and sorrow, in things she bottled and took with her, because that house couldn’t take anymore embers, flames catching over its beams.
She ceased her wild chase into the void at his words – curling her hands into fists down by her sides, then relaxing, releasing them. “Fine.” She could do that. But Melita wouldn’t turn back towards him, not right now, spine ramrod straight, unflinching in the way and wake she carried her cinders. “Where is he?”
She ceased her wild chase into the void at his words – curling her hands into fists down by her sides, then relaxing, releasing them. “Fine.” She could do that. But Melita wouldn’t turn back towards him, not right now, spine ramrod straight, unflinching in the way and wake she carried her cinders. “Where is he?”
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
