A Sort They Call Despair by Azurine
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Rated
PG-13
Pairing
Summary
Notes
Date Completed October 21st, 2004.
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There's Grief of Want -- and Grief of Cold -- A sort they call "Despair" -- There's Banishment from native Eyes -- In sight of Native Air -- From "I measure every Grief I meet" by Emily Dickinson
In his dreams, he eats apples. Apples, and cheeseburgers, and ice cream cones. In his dreams, he holds them in five-fingered hands, and eats them with a mouth that can taste. A mouth that can smile. He misses smiling. And shaving. And the feel of the wind stirring the hair on his head. He misses papercuts and bruises and stubbed toes. He misses sore muscles, and bee stings. He misses the feel of a soft T-shirt on his back, and the tingle sunburn on his skin. He misses the itch of beach sand on his feet and the sting of salt water in his eyes. In his dreams, he is always normal, always smooth-skinned and fleet-footed. He swims and he runs and he touches people without fear. In his dreams, his hands don't leave purple welts, and his hugs don't endanger bones. This tough hide he wears now keeps him safe, but it also keeps him separate. He can't feel anything, except in the broadest sense. A hand on his arm registers as vague sensation, and that's all. An impression that something is happening somewhere on his body; something that doesn't hurt, but doesn’t feel good, either. He misses feeling good. He misses being tickled. He misses his eyelashes, and his bellybutton. He misses hangnails and blisters, and leg cramps. In his dreams, his football-injured knee aches when it rains, and he still has a skateboarding scar on his chin. In his dreams, hot showers still feel good, and biting tinfoil still feels bad. In his dreams, he still has a funny bone. In his dreams, he wears his favorite jeans, and those boots that were broken in just right. Sidewalks don't crack beneath his feet, and pretty girls still smile at him. He misses girls, and kissing, and sweat cooling on his skin after sex. He misses feminine fingers unzipping his fly, and making someone moan in his ear, and open-mouth kisses on his belly. He misses the way women taste, and the way it feels to be inside them. He misses the way they used to act around him. In his dreams, everyone still acts the same, and everything is how it used to be. In his dreams, his eyes can still shed tears over the fact that *nothing* is how it used to be. The End
I measure every Grief I meet
I measure every Grief I meet
I wonder if They bore it long --
I wonder if it hurts to live --
I note that Some -- gone patient long --
I wonder if when Years have piled --
Or would they go on aching still
The Grieved -- are many -- I am told --
There's Grief of Want -- and Grief of Cold --
And though I may not guess the kind --
To note the fashions -- of the Cross -- Leave a comment for this story
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