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