I held him tight and felt the slow roll of slight drops rocket down my arm.
One.
Two.
Three.
Gaining momentum, I lost count. Quickening in speed and increasing in number. The sobs racked his body back and forth and his muffled cries echoed in my bones.
His pain radiated through me.
Weeping pinpricks formed on my dress, his pants; darkening the material, turning it a uniform, grungy grey, running away from the initial impact. Puddles of salt collected in the fold of my bow. Weighed down with everything he felt, they clung to my skin and then they drip dropped.
The oh so familiar fabric of his shirt stretched across his back; arched with grief, his head now buried in the palms of his hands.
I sensed the appreciation of my silence, the aversion of my gaze; the way with which I accepted his broken form and withheld all questions and all speech.
Nothing mattered but us, but now.
My body changed positions, revolving around his anguish; finding comfort in his closeness, his warmth. My hand found its way to his and he returned a gentle pulse.
The storm was not over, but I knew then how much I loved him, how much we needed each other; he was my sun, and I was the moon and the stars.
