emotional reunion - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The emotion of our reunion sealed as a perfect photograph in my soul.
I've felt so very angry. I've felt so deeply bloody angry with the universe, with God. Yet that is so unfair. Everything I've struggled for is exactly what I asked to do. I'm en route to achieve what I set out to achieve. The pain that has come with it, the brutal brutal suffering of my soul was necessary. There was no other way to learn what I have learned. The anger is because I want to be with you. I want to be with you so much but I have to keep my own counsel, my own direction with only the influence of the divine ether that comes to the artist. Artists will get that. They've felt what I feel. But there must come a time, a day, a moment when I get to say I've done what I set out to do. I really hope so. Because that is when we get our emotional reunion. That is when I can have your love because your influence at that point will be a bonus, a boost, a benefit to whatever comes next. Yet for now. In this moment. I am so very sorry. All I am is anger.
The emotional reunion is told in the soul connection of eyes, in the sweet touch, in the strength of a such a long anticipated hug. For in that moment is the sweet release, the relief, the chance for joy to take centre stage and dance.
There is a million words and none in his eyes, for this is a story told at a deeper level.
Danny steps from the shadows, stealing my breath and the heat from my skin. Suddenly my defences are just paper, paper that is being soaked by the rapidly falling briny drops. Before I can draw in the air my body needs I have melted into his form. I can feel his firm torso and the heart that beats within. His hands are folded around my back, drawing me in closer. I can feel my body shake, crying for the missed time we will never make back, crying to release the tension of these three long years. He pulls is head back and wipes the tears with a calloused finger, even this roughness brings more relief than my heart can hold. He is eating me with his eyes, running his hand through my hair, as if he can't quite believe I'm not part of an almost forgotten dream. When he kisses me it's sweet, gentle, and it tastes of my tears. I want to speak but all I can do is croak, "Don't go, not again." His mouth paints a soft smile and he nods once before folding me in his arms again.
When Pan steps from the shadows I understand why he spoke to me from darkness. Though his voice is the same, had I seen him first I would have denied it was him. What was once a handsome face, chiselled like his father's, is now more machine than man. In the split second that he is illuminated by the flickering street-lamp my face falls from elation to horror and then to a controlled visage of concern. I know if he was whole I'd be running forwards at this point, throwing myself into his arms but I can't. I step forwards, keen that he shouldn't go. After so long without him I think I'll just die if he leaves now. I need him, I hope he needs me. When I try to speak my voice falters into unintelligible croaks, I want to tell him I love him but I don't think he'll believe me and I'm afraid it will sound hollow. Maybe he's disappointed in me, he doesn't know I never gave up looking for him, never gave up hope he'd return. Then I move close enough to touch, his eyes are the same, still that vulnerable boy from the meadows - the one who the horses all followed like he had pockets of sugar. Then his hand raises, silently despite the robotic components and he touches my hair. I wish I'd washed it today, I wish I'd put on the make-up I'd been saving for his return, but he doesn't seem to mind the tired eyes. Then he says "Goodbye, Love" and I snap inside, snap like brittle glass and feel the shards tearing at my guts. I can't speak, the blood leaves my face and I grip at his decaying uniform. He stops. Watching me break right before his eyes. His face stays robotic but something shifts in his posture. "I'm sorry, love. I won't go, not if you still want me."
Tyrone's face comes from the shadows, craggy features suspended between grief and joy. Seconds pass, my brain taking him in, struggling to comprehend that he isn't one of the pictures I keep beside my bed, that he is real. My brain can't formulate a thought, at least not one based in any language, and if I don't touch him soon my atoms will tear themselves apart. How the ground between us is erased I'll never recall, but one moment we are apart and the next we are morphed into a single being. The warmth of his body meets my cold skin, giving me hope like he always did before the war. One of his hands clasps around my lower back, the other strokes my hair. With each soft touch more tears fall, tears neither of us wipe away. After so many years we have the chance to make new memories and wasting time isn't on the agenda.
Selma wears a face like she's expecting anger from me, anger that just doesn't exist. All I have for her is love, all I want is to keep her safe. She won't accept it just yet, she feels so much misplaced guilt. In truth she's still such a kid, still growing into her adult body. I like that she wants to own her mistakes, but she needs to forgive herself too. Until she does that she'll never let me in to help her heal. So I take the emotions that swirl inside of me and put a stopper on them, not to bottle them up forever but instead to keep the love safe until she can accept it as her birth-right.
The man that walked into the courtyard looked liked an aged version of myself. At first his eyes were cast to the dusty earthen floor and then he seemed to suddenly realize he was at his destination, at our rendezvous. He lifted his head. His face had the same structure as my own, high cheekbones and symmetrical. He had the same deep brown eyes and tanned skin. He was still slender despite his years, toned and not at all stooped. Good news for me there I guess. Around his eyes were laughter lines in just the right amount. I supposed that he was often happy, but at that moment he was deadly serious. In his hand he clasped a large envelope and my heart skipped a beat. Photographs perhaps, possibly of mother and my babyhood. I raised a hand to wave and he spied me in an instant, sitting by the water fountain as I was. His face split into the grin I had imagined him to wear often. Then he came over in fast easy strides and took my offered hand in his two, shaking and squeezing...
James sits in the bus depot, shivering on an icy bench, eyes cast to the cement sidewalk. When my hand touches his face he keeps his gaze away, unwilling to risk rejection. With my fingers on his cheek I turn his head so he can see that there is no judgement in my eyes, only love. His face buckles and tears roll unchecked, washing a path to his chin. In moments I hold him an embrace I never want to end, one that tells him everything will be alright. I lost him once. I won't loose him again.