it brings peace. period.

and it isn’t the writing, but the realization of fear’s uselessness, evident in the vulnerability of being

like a blue thread

The scent of her hair fills him with awe. She is what he always thought she could be: the anchor to his woes. “Aspetti.” Wait.

Sara pulls away, his needs sliding off her skin, wasted like rain that doesn’t saturate. Moving and stepping forward in search of something is not what she wants. It is peace of some sort. Now. She has been trying to fill voids with motion and noise and music and anyone that could make the time pass. Waiting and hoping, uselessly wasting time, and now is allowing herself to fall apart in his arms.

She picks up the umbrella, wishing someone would come in — a delivery, the maintenance guy, anyone. Paolo is part of the voids, sending her on quests, keeping her asking for more. And he is succeeding. She has had to create all kinds of buffers to avoid falling with him and his ways, sin rumbo ni sentido. Without direction or meaning. As if she needed help.

barely drifting