His figure resembles the terebinth;
his hair, grass; veins, arteries; rivers, canals;
and his bones, the mountains.
his hair, grass; veins, arteries; rivers, canals;
and his bones, the mountains.
She says his name and something inside him goes a little funny, if it wasn’t already, he’s not sure and he wants to hear her voice forever. It’s not the voice of a pretty girl (well, maybe), it is soothing and soft as a breeze on the night and he thanks her silently when she pledges to stay. He leans against her, not as much as he needs to but his pride won’t let him make her a crutch. His legs might, soon. He cannot imagine why she is helping him, cannot form the slightest concept as to why a stranger in the dark would see him and think, “ah, this one deserves a second thought”. He is worth nothing like this, too weak to fight, to defend even himself, never mind one who is perhaps the second kindest soul in the world - the first is mother, remember - but the whisp of air pressing through his lungs keeps him going and so does the hope.
She asks two questions. He is slow to answer. Toro whispers, ”My lung.” His eyes only water at the soft nose in his mane, the soft kind touch of her. He can’t understand. He wants to answer the second question in action, and for all his might he tries. Weight on the legs away from her, widening space between them - he stumbles, throws himself back into her - he hopes not too hard - air knocked out, face hot, embarrassment burning fast from skull to skin. ”Sorry,” he wheezes, and he cannot recall the last time he apologized for anything.
@Isra René Descartes and the Clockwork Girl
"What I say,"
What I think,
