The Art of Falling

The rustling eventually stopped and the small stream of light that glowed under the door flicked to darkness. A soft sign soared through the midnight air, a tender surrender before her curly blonde head would lay on his pillows and she would fall asleep in his bed. Meanwhile he sits on the edge of bed in the guest room adjacent to his own where he left the door cracked just enough to get a glimpse of the door she sleeps behind; the girl with a passion for poetry and who loves the way he can recited T. S. Eliot in casual conversations. She was the only one who knew what he was saying but never told anyone, she wanted to keep it as their own secret language.

They’d laugh, they’d joke, they’d hug goodbye, but here they’d be separated behind wooden doors and years of fallen tears accumulating on his tee shirt as she finds comfort in his gentle arms, heartbroken and golden spirit fading. The sea was swiftly moving but he continued to fight among the waves of her ocean, waiting for the time she’d noticed him as the lone survivor, the one who would never give up on her even when she wanted to give up on herself.

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