As the poet says, So do I

Right Through my Chest

As the poet says, he is half of my soul. She is, to me, half of my soul. The sliced part of my entire being that was separated somewhere through my journey here and left in the heavens to wait for her perfect moment, that until the rightful moment I've met her, that half of me was still further away.

Life gained a bit more color as she painted the walls and the floors around me, drew doors and windows for me to see more of the world out there and leave the days of a blind bubble of a world behind. I feel the love nurtured through the years in the drawings I draw, felt the pain that hurting each other can bring to one's soul and mind when I sob into warm and soft blankets that carries more scents than my own, startle myself in the small smile creaking through my umid stone face at the memories swimming in the tears of the playfulness and jokes that brought a bit more giggles into the world.

She is half of my soul, as one poet would say had they met me in a distant life and could watch in my bare eyes the amount of feelings there pooled and contained from being handed to the very same small, warm hands I love. She is the half of me I can't love properly as I wish I could. The one kind that life took away from me one way or another, as peaceful and caring as it could be hurting and tore me apart. In the end, neither I feel peaceful and soothed when my feet tremble in my steps towards the warmth that I'm desperate in need of, or feel torn apart to my very core since it's a path I'm long used to feel it under my fingers and had the displeasure to feel it before.

In worse scenarios, surely, but are committed to my memory to remember me of the tears they caused.

They know that, of course they know that half of my soul is not for me to pour my love as pure as I wished to. In the arms I fit in, one cold and steel and other warm and soft, I let my legs give up to keep me standing and pass onwards the plea. I know there's not an ounce of expression in my stone cold face, all the anxiety and sadness fevers inside, pools and bubbles, only to spill hot through my eyes - feel them burn, exhausted after the hours passed, and I close them under the overwhelming tenderness in which two more arms round me and the one that first cocooned me in his chest. Safely hidden from the molten steel in the blue of that unreachable stare, eyes a tone of blue with just a drop of gray.

"I'm glad you allowed yourself to my, to our care, be smart and let us hold you for just a minute longer, лисичка, my little fox." I drink in the whisper of a Russian that I don't understand, but can conjure and feel the presence of love and care in it.

Of course they know. That's why I let myself lean into the comfort of the Winter Soldier's sensitivity, fresh in ways that no human will ever be after being locked up from his own self for so long, denied of feelings, and so the softness that bares the metal of his hand may as well be softer than any skin of silk could dream to be as it combs my hair. Cold it's soothing, refreshing, and past half an hour the midnight through warm tears, warm microfiber blanket and warm skin from a bath that drowned half of my tears down the drain, it's the cold and gentle hold his arm has around me on his lap that pulls me down to a reality that doesn't gravitates near mine, but offer comforts nonetheless. And there's the warmth in my skin that I absorb in ways that feels like starving, the comforting warmth of calloused hands of the good man that guides my unsettled breath in each caress of my back, not the perfect soldier.

"I thought I was strong."

"You are." Both are sweet baritones of voices, tones too near to dreams that could lull me to sleep for dozens of hours if whispered near my ears like that in other universes. "You're just human, mo stór, my dearest, in love." It's the soft feeling of a sound, of warm lips of the one former Captain America that has me limping deeper and tighter under the Winter Soldier's fortress of a body, rattled with the desire to let a sob follow the sniffle.

Winter is cold on the outside, but inside its creations, such as homes made of ice, it can be warmer and rescue the most victims, better than mundane tents can. Cutting myself of defenses around one soldier made by the winter feels like being embraced by a warm fortress of ice, and rescued and loved with devotion by the one behind me. Whose face I don't look upwards to see but know the tones of green in the blues of his eyes that I once stared right back in dreams, and the golden aura that comes from him and seeps into my skin starved for that solace, fiery like ones of those of an angel old books would tell tales about, the gentle ones that would protect the uncared, saddened, ones left to wallow within themselves like me and Winter Soldier. The one good man that sits on his ankles and rumbles small melodies that none remembers names but a poet would choose to transform their words into sounds. Into sounds that grips my heart with feelings of how I just know, in my limp bones, that she's half of my soul that I love deeply, but cannot share that love as profound it really is, cannot find in me the healed and pure form I dreamt I had acquired already.

So, they feed from it for me, save me from the huge weight of having too much sorrow for the myself I don't love yet, and the other self I won't be able to love, in their sluggish and soothing kisses across my bare shoulders. Take that amount of love in me for themselves, for they know how pure and a lot it is and I have no other place to bear it but my own mind, my own mind that conjures them and gladly embraces me between them, inside myself. Just for a moment, just a night where I can't feel any sensation in my skin other than the cracked and dry tears of my face.

One can't deliver their hearts to others that don't exist. Doesn't mean I can't imagine a world where they hold tight to the heart in my neck with interlaced hands, then proceed, with both hands each, to shower me in love and comfort that I, alone in the dark in a room that they don't live in skin and bones, can't find.

Or have the prospect that I would have it someday.