Oh, my darling.
How I hear you.
We've spent our days in teasing and mistreatment, yearning for something we thought to be unattainable for so long that we'd assumed we'd not deserve it. That maybe we were too hideous to be seen by day. I know that all too well.
Led to believe that the simple act of being human, of feeling — it would be too much. We're not permitted such a trait. Of passion. Of care.
Too emotional.
Too sentimental.
Who gives a damn, anyway? We should be as sentimental as we'd like. Who does it hurt, truly? Oh, I grow sick and weary of those naysayers and grouchy old gumps who would rather complain about their husbands and wives and say tales of woe. We have love where they do not. I think it matters.
I inhale, and the scent lingers. If only my eyelid could cease its incessant twitching. If only you were here to hold it shut with your overly-cautious fingers. So gentle. A ginger touch, afraid of doing even the slightest of damage.
But you can damage me no more than what life already has. I have been worn and weathered; eroded into what is, at times, merely a husk and a shell. Sometimes I fear showing you that.
And yet... I still want to. I hold desire to share everything with you, top to bottom, warts and all. I am unfolded again and again and again. On and on.
And I adore it.
I adore you.
We will hold each other again.
I promise that.
