hiraeth (n.)

hiraeth (n.): a homesickness for a home you can't return to

somehow I can see the light of the sun playing with my eyelashes
and it reminds me of you as it reflected in your eyes, and I would lose myself in them, an ocean of endless greens and blues
I forgot what the sun looked like since you'd been gone
but now I see it sweeping through the fields and dancing in the trees and resting on my face
and I remember you smiling and the wind sweeping your hair across your face and the freckles the sun left on your skin in it's wake
and I think that in your absence the sun shines brighter for you
and all I can do is hope that there is sun where you are and that the gods gave you a home half as beautiful as the one you left behind
and that maybe in another life I'll meet you there soon

this post was brought to you by the gladiator soundtrack, particularly elysium, which you should go listen to immediately (while reading this pls).

excerpt from the novel i may or may not write

The shadows whisper around me, closing in, and I wonder that any wood could feel so claustrophobic. The cold numbs my fingers, and the long dead brambles strain to entangle my feet. The skeletons of trees, stripped of their bark and robbed of their leaves, surround me, pale wood glowing in the falling dusk. The clouds are heavy overhead, and I find myself yelling hoarsely again. Time was running out. I would be too late.
The echo of my yells reverberates through the wood. Again and again and again. Until my voice breaks off in the middle of her name. In my rush, I'd hardly noticed the clearing until I stumbled upon it and feel my throat catch.
This is wrong.
A figure lays crumpled beneath a cape at the foot of a massive tree. It can't be her. I crumple at her side and gather the broken figure in my arms, sweeping the hood back from her face with unsteady hands.
No. Her eyelids flutter, failing to open and a weak moan escapes her lips. No no no.
Her face is marked angry red and bruised, swelling strange colors. It feels like a punch in the gut. But it looks less like a beating and more like she's been beaten up from the inside.
Oh. Wait.
Seething, angry tears burn the back of my eyes. I can't remember how to breathe. My hands are shaking when I reach to try to lift her neck. Of course. This has to be the work of the Sorcerer. I've seen more than enough wounds of my own from countless beatings to know this is different. I've never seen anything like this. My whole chest aches, but I find myself wishing fiercely that it hurt worse, that I could take some of her pain. Guilt tears at my conscience. Where had I been?
The pounding of my own heart is so loud I almost miss the soft whisper cutting through the now still air.
"Well, look who finally decided to show up."

ps / here's my temporarily public writing board on pinterest

pps / here's a previous blog post that is a character profile for the character who is narrating this piece ^. it also contains a link to the first few chapters of the novel, and will give you a little more background. and if you read it I would literally love you forever.