delga | { So Here We Are Again. }

so here we are again. (original)
painter; poet; rocks&water
She looks away; not at him.

She opens her eyes, giving a mental sigh. She knows that she’s being watched; knows that his eyes are following hers but it’s too early to look at him and confront his eyes. She’s tired of having to explain herself, having to explain the cycle of highs and lows that make up and undermine her being.

She looks away; not at him.

At first, meeting him had been worth abandoning her history. Meeting him had been worth the stop in her ongoing journey to bigger and better things. They had locked eyes and for once she saw a future other than her own; a future framed by bright, golden light and sparkling eyes that held the promise of magic. She determined to wait awhile, to maybe take him on her travels. But he didn’t like change - he liked to stand aside and watch the world go by as he was left behind.

In the beginning, she’d thought that maybe he was different to all those others she had found. She was a travelling artist, someone who built stories around the lives of others and his stories had caught her mind. He told her how Romulus and Remus had fought for possession of Rome; he told her of how Hades stole Persephone as his virgin bride; he told her how Athena had sprung fully grown from the head of Zeus. He had told her about the people he’d seen; he’d told her about the worlds within the weathered sheets of the battered books on his desk; he told her of the roads that others had taken and why he would never take them himself.

She had found that he was open to the sound of her voice; found that her thoughts and opinions were well-received and quite often, embraced. She could look at him and see new opportunities, new destinations - new possibilities.

But the wheel had turned, her nightmares returned and she was reminded of what she was - who she was. There was a song on the road and she could hear it calling to her, pulling her back to its reassuring blandness; back to the thrill of the unknown destination, unknown location, where she could once again be just another tourist in just another town.

She ends her procrastination - not liking the direction of her thoughts - and looks at him.

He is so tired, so weary. She must have stirred again, rousing him from his ever-gentle slumber. Perhaps she had cried out again; she never could remember. She reaches out towards his face: what is this man who can feel so intensely? What is this man who can hold her so tightly, ground her so strongly? She can see an opalescence in his eyes, glimmering, glittering and she can tell that the yearning so apparent there within is about to turn into a flame of hope… she leaves the bed.

As the hot water pounds onto her swollen muscles, she finally comes awake and she thinks about this life she has made with him; this life and all the others that she left behind. She had always been able to comfort herself with the knowledge that at least the road is faithful - it could never hurt her. The road never changes, never leaves, is forever present and constant in its gratification of her needs.

As she steps out from under the heady spray and begins to towel off, she realises that the wheel has come full circle - the time has come for her to move on again. She knows it will hurt him, her departure, but then that is the forfeit. He is the price she pays for her life, the sacrifice she must make for that world.

When she emerges from the bathroom, he is sat on the edge of the bed, her portfolio in his hands. The images, the myriad of colours fascinate him and he in turn fascinates her. His appreciation for the finer things in life never ceases to amaze her and for the first time in the longest of whiles, she thinks she may be missing out by living the life that she does. Indeed, even now she could turn to him and she’d feel as though she had come home; as though she’d moved so far only to return to where she was hoping to escape and that, perhaps, was what frightened her. He would never leave this place; she would never stay.

He lingers over the portrait she made of the life behind his eyes; the ones that had so captivated her on their first meeting. He pauses over the sandy expanse, tracing the contours with his fingertips, reading the page like the blind would Braille. It is one that engages him in a battle of wills - he loves its power but cannot fathom the beauty of its composition. That he seems to understand the message yet never fully comprehend the scene always intrigues her. For him, the surface is simply a skin under which the true treasures lie. She strolls over to where he is and rests a hand on his shoulder so as to re-examine the piece herself.

She remembers being surprised at her own dexterity; remembers seeing how the layers of paint and pastel would come together even before she had chosen the canvas. She remembers the feel of the brush in her hand, the weight of the bristles pushing against the page. She remembers running to him, wanting him to see and know how he had inspired her - remembers being ecstatic at his breathless response.

She looks at him now, those same, sweet eyes and has to restrain a low gasp. She sits on the bed and rests her head on his shoulder, unwilling to move or be taken from this moment. For now, she is content to be there, comforted by his presence.

“Tell me again, sweetheart,”

He looks at her, eyes ablaze.

“Tell me again why you won’t ever leave.”

end.

note: sequel to running.