Your guardian is back, tonight; you doubt that will ever change. But though he stands and watches as stock-still as always, his feet are planted at your window, closer to your bed than the wall. His hands, usually loose and stony, are clenched with white knuckles visible even in the darkness. And his eyes - they are the worst of all.
His eyes aren't tight with anger. His eyebrows don't arrange his expression into a glare. His mouth isn't drawn into a terrifying frown. No, he wears an expression of pure, though muted, sorrow. With a furrowed brow, damp eyes, and wings that droop ever so slightly, the expression sends a cold shiver down your spine.
But just like always, he murmurs into the darkness. His voice is low and controlled, if strained, but more comforting than any other night. They whisper of relief and of safety; of warmth and of comfort; of kindness and of healing; of promises that will never be broken. His lips form soft words that quiver around the edges but remain solid and whole.
His voice winds around you, wrapping you in a thick blanket. Tonight is the first night you don't really wonder what he's saying. You're content enough knowing that he stands close to your bed, with eyes trained on your soul, and reassurance pouring from him in waves.
Your mind begins slipping, making less and less sense as you lay there in the darkness. You yawn more and more frequently, each time bringing more tears to your exhausted eyes. You roll onto your side, curling your limbs into yourself, and let the silhouette of your guardian angel be the last image you see before you softly, carefully, drift...
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YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
