Upon later thought, perhaps as he laid in bed after a hard day of travel, he would think about how expectancy, a rhythm, was all her normal. In the deep of the green, after all, it would rouse gold and rather similarly, the sun surfacing ever eastward until it slumped snoozing with the linden that would tower in the west. Here, the snow would pitter white after autumn until the burgeoning of the springtime would burst its song, and the harvesting of the berries swelled summer-red and tender? Before. He moves. Yes. Before the bowing of the branches bogged with figs.
Yet, oddly enough, waiting sweet as he kissed the corner of her mouth, it would rest there: the honey weeping cradled in fall-sprung fruit. Why? Everything was spinning curiously out of rhythm, as together, he would hover in the meadow where they laid with the daisies. God. What had compelled him to stun her and to so stare at her all evening until the sun sank low? It'd ached him. And if she were but a creature who would lean upon a rhythm, then he, hewed on yearning, was all the opposite.
He was daring, this noble knight! And as her blooms burst with a flourish through the grasses, he was once more so soundlessly felled. His heart had now leapt dotingly through his rib bones as she grabbed at the front of his shirt once he'd leant in again. She was beautiful, he thought, and tenderer than anything -- and brave, he kissed her again on the left of her mouth. "What is it?" he asked warm against her skin. Fluttery. His hands moved slow, sure, warm, much warmer than hers, and at long last, settled where she'd shaped her words with her fingers.
"Tell me again." / @mkoshi continued from here.
