White Horse, My.

He is no longer far away. The picture is totally changed. He stands next to me, to my gleaming blue cube, no longer spinning, but still changing. The storm is closer, but he does not budge.

He looks at me...
he looks at me...
he looks at me...
he looks concerned, but he doesn't utter a sound.

I ache at the sight, I ache at his seeming perfection, at his stoicism, I ache at the very sight of him, at the sight of being under his sight.

Yet you're not perfect, you're just flesh and blood and tears, and I can see the strain and I can feel the tiredness in those eyes that will not stop contemplating my mutations. I don't need you to be perfect, I just want the storm to come at once and wash the blood out of your beautiful mane.