He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her observe whatever was so fascinating about the outside. She was beautiful to him; her long brunette hair travelled to the small of her back & framed her porcelain white face perfectly. He watched the rise and fall of her breathing and how her small frame moved slightly every time she made a movement.
But he knew nothing of why she stood so perplexed at the sight of whatever was outside that frosted window. What she saw would not matter to him. What she saw was millions of miles of freedom. She saw everything in herself reflected in the outside. Outside the life she had longed for everyday. But now she had it, it meant nothing to her.
She wanted to be free. He just wanted to show her he loved her.
She knew it was a mistake.
He knew it wasn’t his fault.
She turned from the window and faced him with sad eyes and he immediately knew. He rose from the bed instantly, dragging his body, now scarred with years of ink. He would only think of himself as a canvas to years of her painting. He would not regret the paint, would only look back and see the good. He promised.
His feet were heavy on the wooden floorboards, and they creaked, as she felt the heat rise in her face, and her eyes began to trace the lines of her paintings. He moved heavy, though he felt weightless, and as he reached her, he held her small frame close to his body.
He clung to her, like the early air clings to the morning, with hope that dawn will not break its presence, with hope that the dawn would not bring the tide, which would wash her away. He held tightly, in hope she would not be broken away by the dawn that the sun threatened. The dawn, of which was now creating a musty light, illuminating the specs of dust floating and dancing freely in the air.
But as the sun must rise, the sea must fall away.
And as the sun rose, she felt his tears fall into her hair, and he gently whispered his goodbyes, to the falling tide.
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