All the way {back} to me

The foamy sweat rolls under the curry comb as I watch each line the blade makes in the red color of your winter coat. It's unusually warm for January. You cock your hip and lick your lips standing quietly, eyes slit against the sun. My hand runs through the course and knotted mix of gray, red, white, ambers and black hair that makes up your mane. I let my knuckles catch in the knots and lean in, resting my head against you.

I feel the weight of my thoughts dissipate, fading off with the gentle breeze and I just breathe.

I let the pungent, sweaty stench from your hide fill my nose. At this part...