Breathing Spell

She looked at him with those ruthless eyes, so impervious and inflexible. He had never done anything like this before. There was something exhilarating, intoxicating, euphoric even, into throwing himself headlong into the mercy of those ruthless eyes. He felt energized, alive. It took his breath away. A day in the sun.

But somewhere along the perils of his life, he fell through the cracks and lost his most prized possession: his freedom. He shed bitter tears, he held it in. Life was an ordeal after the night he lost his freedom, and nothing would strike him the way it did the moment after he had to leave her. Day after day was a breathing spell. He watched clouds pass by. Here another gully to climb. An interim for the day they should ever meet again, even though, to him, that seemed rather unlikely.

He did his time, paling as he wore the yoke around his neck. What else could he have done? There were times he was knocked senselessly to the ground, blood decorating the oak wood floor, smothered shouts lying the background. Those days he walked through the darkness, the abyss he was chained to in the fucking sea. He was in the middle of an ocean where there was no land and when the only thing more convenient thing to do than to swim to nowhere was to drown.

But how could he? How could he leave this behind? She was there, staring at the sea for him. If not for him, then for something he knew he could give. She was restless. He was waning. He would not have it.

She is dashed hopes, endless storms, birds perched on branches of trees singing their fever song, and impenetrable foggy mists on the coast of the shore.

He is blind desires, long days of pointless work, caged wolves howling at the night, and tall waves that never break the shore.

Today, now, he watches her sleep. There is peace and beauty underneath all the violence. And the choir sings. The song of their hearts would slowly start to mend their wounds. There is a love to be had and it has suffered long enough.

I think we deserve

a soft epilogue, my love.

We are good people

and we’ve suffered enough. – Seventy Years of Sleep

Breathless Picture

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