#oof?

"Hush, my love, please hush," she whimpered, barely holding in a sob. The squalling was likely to attract undesired attention and she couldn't afford for them to be found. Izayoi rebound her ankle, the skin still raw and stinging with any pressure. Her forearm on her left was even worse. She didn't regret deflecting that burning shoji from her newborn son's precious little form, but now she had burns that needed tending on top of the full time care of a hanyou infant.

The small village inn had allowed her to stay for a few days, the innkeeper taking pity on an obviously injured new mother.  Fortunately, no one tried to take a closer look at the baby since his tiny claws and inu ears would have gotten her thrown out at best and stoned if they were feeling less generous. After she was mobile enough, she had moved on, needing to keep him safe.  Her baby. Her Inuyasha.

Anywhere near humans was not safe.

Izayoi had taken what little she had to trade and gotten all the supplies she could. A little knife, a jug for water, an oiled cloth to carry food and a swaddling cloth a woman in the market had gifted her. As tiny as her baby was, it was clear to all that she was alone and had been through something terrible.  She had cut her hair to hide the fact that large chunks had burned in the fire, leaving it uneven. She was forced to pull it into a low bun, which helped her be less conspicuous, but she missed her hair.

Of course, she had far more important things to worry about.  Like nursing her obviously hungry son while trying to find a way to block the entrance to the tiny cave she had found to hide them in.

we are under the stars, lips swollen, voices echoing. we speculate everything. (how much of an asshole was aristotle. how bad does oscar wilde really seem. who the fuck is shakespeare.)

here is a dream

I meet the cold morning breeze, and your poetry is by my doorstep coupled with daisies like the ones you hold in your eyes. your words and soft metaphors and striking truths are the first things I witness in the morning.

here is a dream

I treasure the dried tears on paper, tracing your handwriting with my finger. I press the daisies between one of my tattered paperbacks. I smile at the fact that you've always preferred hardcovers over paperbacks. I chuckle at the irony of how you're the one who commutes more but opts for the heavier option.

here is a dream

there are painted flowers in a small sunlit corner. I see art in wafting steam of either coffee or tea. it doesn't matter but it does, we love both. I tape the napkin poetry and ballpoint drawings on the kitchen walls. I write poetry and love notes on post-its and slip it inside your current book for you to find. you gently pry off my glasses and bookmark my paperback and kiss my forehead after I've fallen asleep while reading.

here is a dream

we grow mint and basil and succulents. you name a flower after me, metaphorically. I sew your name in embroidery thread and put it in calligraphy. because after poetry and I love you, your name is the best word I know.

here is a dream

we riffle through pages of philosophical writings and memoirs and I ruffle your hair and kiss your sun-dappled skin. we listen to music. your presence is the peaceful sort of gloom I long for in a hot day. I am filled with love and tenderness for you.

here is a dream

we find the answer to love, we find the answer through each other.