His voice, his predictability...it threatens to ease me into the framework of our unspoken truce and companionship. Allow distractions to mold our conversation, embrace the expectant dose of platonic complacency. Those caged voices wail their disapproval. Our pattern, the ritual has always (eventually) won. Answer him…my subconscious groans, stamping her little feet with impatience. “No,” I murmur, flinch/gesturing toward those pulsing cascades of amber, “this alive…pretee.” The scorched cavern had been husk-like, our pre-dug grave; it couldn't have a heartbeat. “Home,” these jaws quiver shyly, softening at their corners, “gon, dead.” Though my tone is gentle, there is flat emotion; a dull, uninspired response. Grief has been buried…those bones and ghosts are ash. My self preservation has constructed an unapproachable acceptance, (for now) one that uses my handicap as an excuse for silence and redirection.

With all assumption that those wild tendencies are in check, my expression fabricates a mindless drift from those far walls, returning to him (but still avoiding his reaction) they fall upon the nearest, brawny shoulder. Temples scrunch, this side...it hasn't been raked by a demon. My demon. I can still remember reaching out as a skeleton; unbelievable that he'd found me within that hollowed out, rancid cocoon. Had his compassion been as bright and tangible then? Distrust and the suspicion for unexpressed intentions had driven my tenderness to a watchful length. But no longer…for months…there has been something warm and pure building from the ground we stand upon. His confidence now breathes inside me and I wouldn’t shrink like before.

Nostrils broaden, fluttering at the tip. His essence is thick from travel and strengthened by immediacy. Caged affections rattle their bars; tearing, poking holes into the thin fabric separating reality and desire. Admissions, questions, all are posed to strain against their confinement – threaten me to the point of unruly. The dull tightness in my chest gravitates upward. “You,” my lips defy me, true to their honesty, “stay, p-pro,” another misstep, another trip on my slender ability, these cheeks become royally heated – the tips of my ears burn wickedly, “pro-tekt me.” Mini me waits, throwing encouragement from the ledge of my heart. Irises tilt downward, avoiding his eyes – but still unable to shake that electric uncertainty.

“You…sont mon abri.” Nerves bring out those native comforts, struggling, I find his words to describe and translate, “like home,” close enough, “for me.”

@Noah