« Reply #2 on: October 16, 2021, 02:46:12 PM »
Upon the flowering bough of a wisteria settles a duo of tiny passerines. Dark chestnut streaks flow over each bird’s plumage, feathers depicted with a gradient of brown to soft buff - from above to below. Beady little eyes of inky black peer, inquisitive and yet greedy as the duo of fowl fuss with the florals.
Each branch of bare wood freely drips with budding petals of lavenders and blues, relaxed downward in delicate little bundles, as if the flowers themselves had leased a held breath. Doused with the morning’s dew the floral bunches exude a softened pollen. Birds preen and peck at the petals readily - plucking the soft leaflets from their roosts as they take the flora’s boons for their own, ever wanting.
His hands were those of an artist, long fingered and roughened from his work. When they gripped my own so harshly my heart would flutter in a manner I could only assume was fondness. I had never been accustomed to holding affections, aware that the marriage intended for myself was to be one of political gain. Perhaps I simply pined after the romances shown to me in literatures, in plays, or the approval he leased upon me in waves. Overwhelming, all encompassing, he was as overpowering as the ocean itself and I was but a vessel enclosed in his storm.
And my feelings for him would continue to be that; all encompassing, overpowering. Controlling. A flighty feeling that drowned my own psyche, near constant.
When those hands pressed against the back of my own, when they guided each press of the keys, the touch was never chaste. Even as my hands grew overworked, tinted a sick purple his own contrasted with, would his approval keep me bound. When we would chatter after our lessons, and he would reassure me that I was to be perfection, I felt a sense of correctness. If it felt correct, it must have been. I remember his expression as our lessons concluded, as he was to be sent away in finality. I was finally the perfection he wanted, even if I did not feel it. Anything less is unacceptable after all.
His teeth had always shown when he smiled, when I had rested upon him tentatively, and on this day did they show in turn. Delighted, indifferent, and bared to the world. He had always been a man that lacked any remorse, I knew he would not regret his actions. Perhaps I regretted enough for the both of us, perhaps if I repented enough would the yearning cease. As he left I felt as overwhelmed as I had in his company and yet not so, the waters had ceased their crushing and yet I was left craving their return.
My thoughts drift to him still, whether in unconsciousness or carved upon canvas.
« Last Edit: March 09, 2022, 05:25:19 AM by bunnie »
Logged