His smile that day was like the sunset; sad—almost sickly—shades of orange and black and blue that left a strange, empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. And his eyes, god, his eyes were like the impending night, void of stars, dark dark dark green and always fading darker; wet and glimmering with cold, lonely moonlight.
But his touch that day left a burning fire on her cheeks—a positively electrifying shock on the tips of her fingers that pulsed through her bones and skin; her heart a beating mess, racing in yearning as he handed her his protective charm.
She swears he let the warmth of his hand linger on hers for longer than he should have; shaky fingers slipping away one by one and, the moment she reached for his hand again, she hesitated and he was gone—one step away, two steps, three.
gone.
And her heart breaks slowly at the way his legs slightly wobbled as he walked far out of her reach. Calculated, pained steps; regretful because he knew—
deep down, she knew—
he was never coming back.
.
.
.
title is from the poem the castaway by william cowper