Wednesday, July 3, 2024

Breath on a Window

 Just a passage from a WIP, and a passage from the heart.


Sometimes he still dreamt of her and it was so real, as only subconscious truth can be, and it was those fugitive moments between slumber and sentience, hanging on, hanging on, which proved most painful of all. He’d roll over toward the window, gazing out upon that hinterland which was the rest of his life, and his breath would fog the glass before fading, and the dream would linger only as long. He’d known from the time he’d loved her—and loved her from the time he’d known her—that it was never about having her. Sure, there were those schoolboy moments when she professed feelings just as ardent, and dreams of a life together soared in his heart like uncaged birds, but even then, he knew. It was like trying to claim the sun or the stars as your own, when all along you should have bent a knee in gratitude that you got to spend time in her light. And that the world did too. How much colder would the world otherwise be. About as cold as the endless winter of his recalcified heart. The stone cold heart she’d found and pierced and healed, and set aflutter every time he set eyes upon her. Every time. No, it was losing her entirely. He’d understood to his bones how lucky he’d been, and long since learned not to question why she’d stopped loving him, but rather, why she ever had. It was nothing he’d deserved, like holy ground upon which he was blessed to have ever stood. But had stood his ground every day since. That in the one in near infinity chance she would on one far day extend her hand, it would find his, unfailingly. Not to win her hand, just to hold it, for as long or as little as she might need. He sighed, a plaintive sound. Exhaled slowly. So much wasted time. He watched as the breath on the glass slowly faded. Hanging on, hanging on.

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