and even she didn't feel it, not at first. it crept up on her, swept in with easy conversation and friendship on fire, the flow of storytelling and the see-saw of he and her, words said and words meant, amateur dramatics and desperation. 
a twitch of recognition, like the electricity of reliving the precise way someone tasted. 
it wasn't love, exactly; not understanding, completely; not replacing, though that was all part of it. she felt that: they recognised the damage in each other. of loves lost, dreams shattered, needs rejected and desires broken. parts of themselves that had been there once, but had had to be replaced, because they didn't work, quite; they couldn't fit.


it was years on, of course. we were broken and beaten and battered, stitched and fixed and carefully pinned back together, unrecognisable from what we once were, who we had been. a tangled mess of hair, shuffling, nail tugging, lip biting, crouching, looking. quite removed from the our pre lapsarian states, our untouched souls.
and even i didn't feel it, not at first. the instinctual, animalistic spark of recognition: of damages done and holes filled.


of course you understood me. it was like coming home.