There were freckles on his skin, to remind him of sunshine. He spoke to mirrors at the dawn, and wore a face for the dark.

Beauty had taught him illusions. To every mirror, he could only doubt. He had brown eyes, dry lips and flat chin. He had red hair, pale skin and freckles. And each night, he conceived the light.

In between his head and chest, love was war. He was caught between a hand and arm, security and harm. But he swore to the Gods, I will love until this body turns into shape and soul. I will give until I'm whole.

If He loses focus, he'd direct his eyes to their reflection. If he forgets, the memory is on each hair of his skin, with every touch and scent. He knew that his freckles were all he's left.

No comments:

Post a Comment