just a little thing

[fahye]

For schiarire:




This is how he always sits, when left alone; delicate and bruised in repose, sore and
stretching his fingers one hand at a time, a sour taste in his mouth
like oranges and
(abandonment)
lemons. A sound in his ears.
Laughter, nothing like the ringing of bells.

There were bells, he remembers now, the detail presenting itself from a memory clouded
by the good dark things. A sombre mortal sound in the middle distance.

Maybe he understands, a little, the look that sat in Hob’s eyes sometimes; deep, deep emptiness,
the layers of the heavens unfolding upon themselves until a tiny spark of light could be seen,
the capture and reflection of a bright
(morning)
star. Just a little glow.
A candle to light you to bed.

He twists in the sand, uncomfortable with his own, imagined, reproving gaze. What are you thinking,
sister of mine?

He tries to recapture the insane light and heat that made the wrong decisions so easy, tries
to find words of justification, but he is alone and grasps at excuses like
the fact that he’s
(fucking bastards)
always been good at it.
It crumbles, without the hands holding him up.

He looks at the sky and knows that there will be a price, of course, paid in looks and words
and apologies and tears and shouts. He owes her these five things.

It’s difficult to put into words that he likes, let alone those that anyone else will, the fact
that he can’t quite blame the blood and can’t quite divorce the words from the actions and
the fact that given the chance he’d
(bleed dry)
do it all again, and again. Why?
I am sure I don’t know.