rage and recovery

the king beckons guienivere home

i don't love him

i don't

i don't even know what that would feel like

if it would be like the movies

with bated breath and wide smiles

or if it would be something else

if its the tightness in my throat

at the sight of his smile

but magnified by the feeling of his skin. 

i want to know

i do

because i see the fondness in his face

when he first wakes up 

before he remembers to school his features

and shut me out of his mind,

and i remember the words he spoke

when he let me see the smallest bit of him

and i think about what it would be like

to lay my head on his chest 

and feel his hands against my back

and to breath in time with his heartbeat

and sometimes i yearn so deeply for that moment

that i feel as though I'm drowning in a sea of want.

but i am made of fear and dissapointment

and he is crafted from abandonment and rage

and even though i want to believe

that we can lay our fears down

and breath freely in each other's embrace,

a part of me,

the one that sat on the floor in the dark

with saltwater on her cheeks and 

pain in her chest,

knows that no matter how much i wish upon a star,

he will never stop running from me

and i will never stop toeing the line

between salvation and insanity.

and yet, 

i still want to know

if arthur really is an irredeemable king

or if his armor can be removed

and be cast aside

to reveal the truth of his heart,

a truth i know is there,

a truth i can sometimes see

in the twinkle in his eyes

and the set of his jaw.

i want to stop fighting this war,

can we lay down our armor 

and just let go?