Winter Aubade

She’s walking alone across the moor. Wind is whipping her skirts and her coat, and she trudges heavy, laden with the wet red fabric. She’s wrapped in a maelstrom of mist and leaves. It’s brown, no, scarlet. Grey air and vibrant green grass mix and melt into the raw sienna clay.

Her love rests peacefully inside while all this occurs. He’s not searching like she’s searching. He knows she’ll come one day.

Yet fervently she searches. She carries apples for him. Red like her wind-chapped cheeks.

That loneliness feels as ageless as the sea. It is the first and the last, stretching out into the past but also into the wine-dark future. It is infinite in all directions. Still the storm rages and bruises across the country, blowing her toward him. 

She meets him raggedly upon his doorstep. He’s beautiful when he’s still half-asleep, opening his door to her. He’ll dry her off and warm her up, but she’ll always feel a chill and remember what it took to reach him.

She’ll give him her fruit as they laze in the quiet of the passing storm. They’ll share it. They’ll wrap themselves within the silence of kissing and familiarity. She’ll stare at his back, bare, before her as they lay upon his bed. They’re together here inside of his space. The storm outside is over with little trace. He sleeps peacefully yet, as she rests beside him, there’s a storm raging within. 

There’s no monsters in this place, nor solitude. Yet longing and loneliness mix with something inhuman that curls about their ankles, licks at their heels as they move around, around one another.

One day he will finally look upon her face and wonder if it is a halo he sees, or a veil.



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