If only.

His palms had lines,it was like staring at railroad tracks, all of them, all over the place, when that is the only solace on a long train journey alone.
She held his hand, the journey ahead was long.
She stared at his paw like palms, they cupped her voluptuousness indeed, but its the lines that fascinated her the most, each etching a different path on the same ground.
He had little fingers, like babies, babies had nice toes, small and stout fingers that have girth, made to fit, in.

As the rail wagon pulled the rest of itself along the slope of the hill, she shut her eyes.
She still saw, in the darkness, closed eyes, meant ears, that will get up at the sound of anything that doesn't fit the reason why eyes were shut.
His palm was in hers, a tad bit sweaty, warming her with comfort.
Sweat, she loved rubbing against his, and then soaking up together in water, to prepare for another round.

She tricked herself into peeking just once more, at the slope of his nose, she could see his neck and his only undone first button, she wished she could undo them all, to look about at his broad shoulders and take a whiff of his manly hair.
She loved being his woman.

Her face was plain, or rather not as fancy as the women, who then, used to paint grandeur on their faces.
She wore a smile, that opened to show clean teeth, that hid her strength.
Her smile was called, Grace.

Strength, is a rather manly aspect, more or less attributed to the dominating counterparts.
But if beauty really is about, being hidden and elusive, you will know a beautiful woman by her strength.
He always told her she was strong.
He rubbed his palms into her hair and held her face, he gazed, and she saw right into her man, and quickly looked away at his soldier boots, he couldn't know she knew his secret.

The train rattled, somewhere the distant hum of night insects mating met the whistling smoke of the coal train, it would be dawn soon, her eyes were still shut tight, in guilt of opening them to take a look at him after he slept, his palm, in her hand.
But this guilt was an indulgence to take her mind off, the morning that followed.
It was the morning that would change the meaning she attributed to the warmth created by epinephrines during love made which met the cold harsh morning.
She would still be warm, and perspire for her man, but she would alone, in the hollow of the morning whistling breeze that would whip through her locks, bereft of his hands entangled in them, she, hoping and praying that he was safe.

They were traveling, all of them, she, fear, him and them together.

It was time for duty over priority.
It was time to pull out mittens to warm her hands.
To sit by the fireside, staring at the crackling wings of fire and the playful wind, and ignoring hunger pangs of the night because she cooked and ate only so he could feed her.
Curling up on the rocking chair, pretending to be asleep so that he would dump their dinner dish,they ate lots of times in one plate, and quickly gather her, he also cradled her to sleep.
It was suddenly damp, it smelt so, she was guilty of thinking about all of this, she was betraying them, their last sleep together for days to come.winter was indeed, bitter.
But she couldn't help but stare at his face, his eyes, were like marbles, they looked bigger and watery up close, they were embedded, like.
His lips were so perfectly shaped and had more lines across the length of them, pursed in a tiny straight line, curled at the ends.
He breathed with his nose, in a slow rhythm, concentrating too much on it would put her into the sweetest, sleep could offer.

It was early in the morning and the rhythm of his breaths were quicker, his body said, it was happy.
She knew he would wake up, soon.
And he'd know if he looked at her puffy eyes that she was crying.
So she'd sleep, now.
Afterall he would come back once winter was over, they could stealthily make love in the lake then.
And she needed him to go happy and not worry about her, so she licked his lips, and he held her waist tightly, and she thought she saw his eyes open.
But he slept well, and he always pulled her closer in the morning to stop her from trembling in the cold white light of morning.
She would miss that, too.
His eyes were shut.
She shut her's and swallowed a breath.

He turned her around and wet her dry lips.
He teased her skin and blew hot air into her ears, and curtly said, it was time, and before her heart could fall, a mighty fall, he blew hot air into her ears.
She huffed back at him and wanted to throw a tantrum for being disturbed during her nap.
But she saw his eyes staring at her making bratty faces in her satin night slip.
She quickly kissed him back and wore her shirt while he pulled up the suitcases.

The train hooted a victory siren as it pulled up at its destination.

A big board that read, Welcome Sarge, almost choked her tears, but she held them back.
She was to go back in the same train.
She had insisted on coming along and he had insisted she don't.
But if being difficult to let go had kept her back she wouldn't have spent those guilty moments, that accused love as the culprit.

He pulled his hand around her tighter and turned to look at her, and he pressed her thigh as he left.

She sat there, mesmerized.

She wished she had looked at his eyes, but she would cry, so she did not.
She loved seeing herself in his eyes.
His eyes, told stories of bloodshed and war, or raped pregnant women and dead children.
His eyes told her of secrets that they saw together with them closed, as he sucked her little musky sweet breath.
His eyes that twinkled as he suckled like a baby.
His eyes full of hope while she laid the plates for dinner
His eyes reeking of fear of not being able to return back to her when he left her alone as he fought for them all.
His eyes when he ate right through her, as she teased him in bed.
His eyes that spoke to her of the greatest feeling of elation as he saw her messy haired, stuck between two heavy cupboards trying to find a lost hair clip.


If only you'd known the woman she was, for him.

If only he'd return from war.

The train pulled over with a similar distant mourn, she stepped down onto the platform as she was circled by army suit clad officers who handed her, his suitcase, the one he had pulled out from under her legs as he left her in the railway coupe, wanting him as much when all she wanted to do was be a twelve year old brat and drag him back.
She opened the suitcase and smelt his clothes, it filled her head.
Her insides.
But it was displaced by a void.
Of never being able to smell him fresh.
Of never being filled by his girth.

If only he had taken along his memories.
If only he'd returned from war, with them.