And all the blood rush to my heart.

And there-with kest I doun myn eye ageyne,

Quhare as I sawe, walking under the toure,

Full secretly, new cummyn hir to pleyne,

The fairest or the freschest yong{.e} floure

That ever I sawe, me thoght, before that houre,

For quhich sodayn abate, anon astert

The blude of all my body to my hert.

And then I cast my eyes down again,

Where I saw, walking under the tower,

Secretly, newly come to lament,

The fairest and freshest young flower

That ever I saw, I thought, before that hour

Which suddenly made my body start

And all the blood rush to my heart.

The Long Way Home

I recall the way you tried to smooth my brow. To calm my nerves and draw out the pain that was causing it. There is, at this time no way to do that.

We had a picnic on the floor in the evening. Chips, a few sweet things. A brush of my hair, as Game of Thrones and a movie of true friendship flicker across the screen. We lounge against one another.

Long talks about the Fire to come. The one we both must walk through, though not hand in hand. Through the gaps in the flame I might see your eyes and hear your voice but I will not touch your skin or hold you in my arms. The last of it perhaps?

You told me a great thing, and how you finally came to believe in me. When you finally came to believe in me. I didn't realize how long I was fighting for, the heavy long fight. Its not over. There is still a long walk before me.

I starred into your eyes, sweet and green, with an amber middle. I wanted the colour. I wanted to see the brightness. And when nightmares got the best of me, you pulled me close and said it would be okay, as you do every time you find us parted, and wake from it.

I can give you a few things right now. Time, security, and a ear that will listen. A friend that will comfort and a hope.

You told me things, of when to be ready. Of what would happen if things were to brighten and Dawn to rise. Time. I promised I would give you time. I promise time. For you say to me I have all the time,

Our whole lives. 

You asked me to be strong, just a little longer for you, and in return, you would be strong for me in my hard times.

I wont forget the words you said. I Promise to be good in this :)

Sleep

I'm shattered, emotionally, after a storm of words took hold in my heart and failed to surrender, but instead tried to burn it down from within. The flames in-sighting fear in my soul.

I pour over book, text and recording in an attempt to quell the cold fire that creeps.

Soon, one day soon I will not have to tremble, silent and alone. One day soon I will wake up and you'll draw me back into your arms, kiss my head and murmur sweet words before we fall back into a warm sleep.

I'm exhausted. The walls of my strong hold are down. How do I do this?

I'm trying to maintain, feed off the words and the moments and seconds, hours, even days--if I was lucky enough to gain them. The soft, gentle touch. I want to lounge against you, soft, warm and safe. Safe. Safe.

Saved

I dreamed of Him again.

I dreamed I was running from my grandmother, who had sent her dogs to hunt me through the bitter cold snow. The snow was deep, to my knees, and I was dressed in boots and skinny jeans and a large hoodie. I ran from the dogs. Send the dogs. Her words echoed in my ear.

I run in the bright snow. I need to go somewhere safe. I see the minsters house. I know they're not there. I know that He's there, inside. I ring the door bell, and collapse into the snow, trying to hide from the dogs and to tired to stand.

He answers, wearing his glasses, jeans and a t-shirt, but I remember the glasses well, and brings me in the warm house. Sits me down and gives me tea and smiles, continuing with his painting.

No one could get me in this white house. I was safe. He saved me.

Sunshine

I had an interesting encounter. But it has a story behind it. Three years ago, in my final years of University, I met a man, and for the sake of the story we'll call him Perseus.

Perseus and I met at a party a year before. He was friendly and charming and I'd had run ins with a string of dick heads.

I had very little in the way of emotional confidence. I was new to the idea of relationships, a late bloomer as it were, trying to figure out how people worked and how far out I should stretch my hearts hand. Burning myself out for a year on an unrequited love, followed by two shitting flings, one with a strangling racist (he got off on that stuff/surprised me with it), and the other by a dirt bag military man, who never spoke to me again.

So when a nice acting guy, and good looking, came along with nice words and wanted to speak with me, before getting into my pants, I fell pretty fast. Turns out though, after 3 months of perpetual conversation, he had a girlfriend. Yet he maintained a flirty relationship esque conversation with me. I was heart broken at first. And I suppose that's where my sign should have started.

But then I went home. I went home to a string of crap jobs, living with my parents in a place where I was uninterested in any of the men. It was all not so bad, but he maintained conversation, to the point that I went back to my Uni City, where we met, he took me for dinner and he proceeded to kiss me on the cheek good night.

It moved a little faster after that.

I got a fancy job in my home town and he was going to Uni again, on the other side of the world. I came back one last time to visit him, and that time he kissed me. It was a nice sweet kiss.

I had sunk in deep by then. I was emotionally dependent on his attention, which he continued to maintain, even after he left for the other side of the world. I held on to the fragments of text I was handed, saving every nice thing. I delved into things he liked, Metal, football (which turns out are interests of mine, but not nearly so intensely) and blocked out things he didn't, like hippie stuff and being anything but Posh and doing posh things. It sullied me with false pride. Desperate. Like I was in an emotional dessert and he was my lifeline to water. Anytime he was having a problem, I was there to try and help.

Perseus would tell me about the crap he went through with his girls too, how they never shared an interest and how they never got him. I always wanted to shout that I got him.

I got a little better by the summer of next year. My job had paid well and I'd taken a little trip.

What a trip. I wanted to see him so bad, but I didn't want to look as desperate as I felt. So I went a little north. Little did I know what would happen to me in this land, that I would fall for its rugged mountains, kind people and the new start I felt I could make if I stayed.

But I didn't and I went home with out seeing him, for he made no effort to meet me part of the way. I went home weeping.

Summer wasn't so bad though. I made money, saw friends and finished, at the end the fancy (and hated) job.

Fall, I started new work, in a place I loved, surrounded by books and good people. I learned my love for serving people and working with the public a bit more. It was good and I was getting closer to better again, stronger again.

And it was then, with the new job, that the messages started again. Perseus had broken up with his girl who'd gone over with him. Not only that, but with school done, he was in desperate need of a job. He needed me to help him, to get him through the day, to pass the time and send the affection I so desperately wanted returned by someone. He started with old nicknames, his favourite being Sunshine.

One of those emotional lows.

He spoke to me again. For months he chatted, until he got a job, then, he was coming back to the country for a visit. I was elated. He wanted to meet! I was even more excited. Finally, it was falling in my lap.

So when the time came, I met him. There was the potential for a relationship I thought. I slept with him. I was set for it to be something more than that. I wanted something akin to a relationship, care and love. I would come over in three months, once my money was finally settled. It would be a nice time of year and good to see a bit more of the world. Perhaps we could start something more settled.

I should have seen myself then, weak and shaking, and on the edge of tears. I was cloaked in my own fear and couldn't see it, dependent on someone who could see it, and used it when he wanted. The last day was strangled by tears, and heartache. It was my mind, my own little heart trying to tell me the truth, and I didn't know it. I couldn't hear its voice over the din of smooth words and loveless sounds he handed me. I should have known. Yet we cannot. Not in that state.

Then he went home, and the messages slowed fast after his first week of being back. After the second week, he told me he'd met someone over there. That's when I came up with his current, and forever nickname, Heartbreaker.

I spent three months in a deep state of depression. There were not thoughts of suicide, but I cried every day for nearly a month. At least twice a day. It took my dad's strictness and unwavering love for me to get me out of bed everyday, to be an adult and woman and try and take control of the life I felt was slipping through my hands. He worked so hard that winter, taking care of my mother, but I don't think he realized (or maybe he did) that he was saving me too.

I was determined to still go across the ocean though. It was at my mother's encouragement. She's the one that always makes me feel like my wild adventures are good, even the best ideas. Seeing the world would help open my eyes, and she pushed me, even through her own struggles, to look forwards to that. To hold on to my hopeful goal.

My plan was to Go to Germany, then Scotland, then make my way south to Heartbreaker from there after a week in the Highlands.

When I left, I didn't cry so much. I was getting better. My family was around me more, and their happy laughter was a great relief. They built upon the foundation my mother and father started.

A few friends came out of hiding too, and their love reminded me of what love was. Of what kindness and true caring was. Of what it was to have fun again. To laugh.

I had my last cry for him, alone, in the basement of my loving Aunt and Uncle's guest room.

After that I grew stronger, new experiences, and new people filled my life. I went to Scotland, but after 4 days, my plans to travel south were pushed back and pushed back. I started taking control in my actions. I started letting myself live again.

He came to visit me.

At the end of my trip he journeyed north, for two nights staying with me and meeting my friends. He noticed it, as much as I noticed it myself. The glow. The happiness. And it was in the first leg of our trip north, I realized I was no longer tied down to him. He'd become just a friend. I would not begrudge him for what he'd put me through. What's the bother in doing that? Hate and anger take up to much energy.

He's contacted me again. The next girl broke with him. I know his patterns pretty well, and I feel bad, as a friend does for anyone who is broken up. He started asking me questions about coming south, about why he didn't date girls that mirrored his interests. He called me Sunshine again. I don't care for that title. Its not mine. I'm not your sunshine anymore, not your sustenance. I'm your friend.

Its been a year, almost, since I left for Europe. I live here now, but not down south. I have a good paying, new job doing something I think I really enjoy, in the very house that I first came to. In the cradle of the home that was my final repair. The place that took the broken creature and taught her new and wonderful things. That introduced her to some of the most amazing people in the world. The place that house my own personal liberty. My freedom. I thank him for that.

Or should I thank my own heart? For being there for me, for teaching me a lesson in what love is? Yes. Perhaps I thank my heart, and the people inside it.