bare the marks

it was almost like he could still smell her, the honeysuckle, the bluebells in the herb mixes she used to lay out in sun every morning like it was part of her routine. he'd say like because it wasn't that she did it absolutely every morning, but just often enough that he would comment on it whenever she did it. encourage it, so that he could show her that he did pay attention. that his mind was at home when he was actually home, still not locked into some glossy eyed state where it looked like the smoke had gotten to his eyes. she'd ask if he was okay, he'd tell her yes, it was routine at that point. not anymore, and the idea that it was woke him. digits flexed, there is cold in his bones. the way it makes his limbs ache, as he feels the mid-day breeze agaisnt the curve of his spine. coal black hair dusted with something new, age, sheets of it had been tossed in the night and it almost dared to hide away his home under an uprooted pine. an hesitant grunt, as if he, a young teenager who had grown to hate the sun. petty movement brings him to rise, to the sun that scatters his eyes. reflective, pale, moments pass before he is adjusted and looking in before the heaven high trees and he is simply stood there. waiting, watching.