Nov
17th
2017
The heat is blistering in Saddle Arabia. Sometimes I stare at the roof of my tent and try to remember the outlines of his face or the sensation of his fingertips on my fur. Sometimes the memories come quickly, but at others I feel as if I were a child, reaching for something desperately far out of reach. If it weren't for his voice urging me on in my dreams, the idea of giving up would have crossed my mind.
I love him, but I wouldn't wish this pain deep in my chest upon my worst--
