[P] and I know this is a weakness;

[Florentine]

i'm a pretty flower girl
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If I were wise I’d tell you no. He moves closer, the shadow of him falling across her – a cloud over an autumn moon. The gold of her darkens at its touch, her skin colder for the loss of light. Yet never has she been warmer (in pain, in fanciful adoration).
 
Through the waves of pain he pulls her up, up, up. Rising from her bed like a ship from the ocean floor. She might rest for a thousand years, fall apart within the sculpted shell of this mahogany tree. But he does not let her rest, not when his shadow looms close and like the sun he pulls her in.
 
“Then I am glad you are not wise.” She says with a laugh that hurts, that softens with the agony of her lungs. It ends as a breath, but it does not change her smile. It glows, warm and bright, berry red at its corners. “And I would not have believed you, even if you had told me you were always right and very wise.” And oh her smile grows like wild flowers, bright and dangerous, bright and beautiful. “It is boys like you who lead girls like me astray.”
 
In silence she studies him. In silence she thinks he should be art upon a wall, something to be adored, worshipped. Oh yes, he would lead her so terribly astray – if he had not already…
 
Her smile is gone, but for a secret one that lingers like a phantom over her lips. It is thin as gauze, fragile but thin as glass. IF he look closely he might find the whole of her laid out behind it. Her one wing, unbroken, still able to call for the wind, lifts to follow her gaze and reach for the curve of an antler.
 
Their desire is mutual, their resistance strong.
 
Her wing falls away, her feathers never knowing the velvet of an antler. In weariness it falls heavily beside her and she might have sighed, she might have grimaced with the effort of existing in pain another moment. Yet she does not, not when his lies taste like candy upon her tongue. “Liar.” She names him like a song, like a bell chime caught in a breeze.
 
“Who are you, Lysander, that you might dare to mock your queen? Brave or foolish, friend or lover… I cannot tell which, but maybe you are all of them?” From the bed of blankets and ornate pillows she regards him with quiet contemplation. In silence she lifts the wreath of flowers. “Forget-me-nots.” She says softly, but closes her eyes as he asks her to, obedient. She dares not wonder but smiles all the same, “It is a shame I have forgotten you, Lysander. But you are here and you friend is not so tell me something about you. Make it something I have never known, so that we might begin anew. ” Then, as if Time itself reaches out to press the words upon her lips, she adds, “Like always.”

@Lysander - mooooz

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world