ratmas cb 1 // ten // crusoe goode

Wind that smells like the earth even on the driest day. Cracked lips that taste like salt when he licks them. Back bent, aching. A heartbeat strong and solemn. The memory of the first horse he ever rode. The memory of the first time he broke his arm. The pain in his right thigh and the memory of the rifle pellet that caused it. His brother's eyes, bright with energy. His own brow, furrowed by wisdom. The delicious and smothering aroma of leather. Dry palms after a day at work. Dry palms heavy with hard earned silver. The flicker of pride in his humble expression. The cool, sweet taste of fresh water. The cool, sweet feeling of a mother's kiss on his forehead. The pride in loving and in being loved.

crusoe goode
eighteen
district ten