OH, TO BE HERE ON THE GROUND
She catches him, somehow, does not snap like the twigs at their feet and instead holds him up, like an ant a crumb, too many times her own weight but she manages nonetheless. Isra’s words are soft on his ears and his heart. She aids him in collapsing into the bed of needles, air forced from his lung as a too-heavy body hits the ground a little too hard. He shuffles, and adjusts himself, trying to be comfortable, as best he can, everything hurts; somehow even where he was not hit he aches like a broken heart. Some of her words are lost on him but her tone is not; she rings against his bones like wind on a chime and it twists him up. Toro watches the mare, eyes glazed, setting fire to branches and weaving a roof of wood and stem over their heads like sinews.
”Let me tell you a story,” she is next to him now, soft and light but so strong and he still doesn’t understand. He imagines today is a day that never ended, if not for the fall of night. El Toro says, ”I don’t understand why you are kind to me.”
But he wants to know the rest of the story and wishes he never spoke.
playlist
"What I say,"
What I think,
But he wants to know the rest of the story and wishes he never spoke.
playlist
"What I say,"
What I think,
