What is it about this boy, that we wield words like unintentional knives, slicing deep into one anothers' souls, retreating with Parthian shots meant to soothe but which only slice deeper?
Again, my heart aching and sharp with guilt and pain; his eyes shadowed, haunted with fear and the shame.
Once, we came together in a dance: an orchestrated symbiotic dementia of the soul, but now we circle one another warily, neither quite predaors this day but nor quite prey, cautious. This dance is no less graceful, despite the arms length we keep from one another... an artificial distance, so plainly a construct that any watching might sigh in sympathy for the obvious fear. We circle one another, steps measured, watching. Our eyes hopeful, but neither of us willing to take the one step that will bring first contact, first possible rebuff, first possible rejection.
Circling, eyes holding one another as arms are yet unwilling. Circling, hearts straining across the walls our fear has built.
Perhaps we will circle forever, wary and afraid, neither willing to risk another wound.
And then... almost as one, neither certain who moves first, a cautious half-step in.
A half-step would not be enough to bring us to touching, not from either of us.
But we both move...
the shock of contact, of the warmth of the other, missed like the sun after a season of monsoons, missed like rain in the desert.
The blessing of contact, of touching, and then we are in one anothers' arms without conscious thought of moving, heart to heart and head to head. Eye to eye and arms wrapped tightly, the touch healing, wholing, holy.
Drinking in the touch like rain in the desert, like sunlight in the deep forest, like warmth at the end of winter.
Safety...
safe harbor again at last.
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