When the only thing you have to give is words...
The summer moon kissed his sun-dark skin and the air lifted the scent of honeysuckle from the ground. He still smelled of fire and earth and last night’s rain and places men’s feet had never been.
He pressed his face against the cool glass and tiptoed his soot-smeared fingers across the surface. The room inside looked snug and inviting, but too clean, too constrained, too civilised for him.
The shape on the bed shifted under the tangled blankets and a slim, bare foot peeked out.
Just that single sheet of glass dividing them – no thicker than a flower stem but it might as well be thousands of miles with the latch firmly set.
What he wouldn’t give to be on the other side of that glass.
‘Think happy thoughts, Wendy-cat,’ he whispered to the window, ‘and I will leave pixie dust for you in your dreams.’
With one last parting look into the room, he let the night carry him away.
No comments:
Post a Comment