"if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me,"
In her dreams the sky is endless. It stretches on, infinite and eternal, and if there is a pattern in the way small moons and constellations break up the deep dark it's lost on her. There is poetry in her sky, moons that twist around like dragons and stars that gather, close and hot like bison in the tundra. Everything is black and silver. Here the air tastes not like brine but sugar and glass. It cracks and bites when her lungs chew the black wind.
Aimlessly she is floating on that sea, leaving lines of blood and scale when her tail fades into the darkness between two stars. On and on she floats, ephemeral as one single wave in a hurricane sea. It seems endless, this boneless, floating way of moving (she thinks this is how a cloud feels). Behind there is only darkness and ahead there is a silver moon that expands suddenly and swallows up her vision like a exploding black hole.
It's silver and dappled with bits of shadow and when she looks at it until her eyes burn and smolder in her sockets she thinks, Eik. Eik. Eik.
And then suddenly she's not a wave in a sea, or a unicorn without hard edges and rage. Suddenly she is Isra running through the darkness, and her trail isn't blood and scales anymore but pearl-dust and gold-leaf.
Then it's not a sea of black at her hooves and she's not dreaming.
Suddenly she's alive, her heart beating like a thunder in her chest (roar after roar) and she thinks that if she were to open her mouth thunder and lightning would pour out instead of love. So her eyes speak for her and all the shadows and fear are devoured by awe and wonder. Lavender coats the air between them like a world of sweetness in which there are only two souls, and a million flowers to taste. When she licks her lips she only tastes clover and sand and skin.
It feels like chewing on the sun.
She doesn't think about the blood flaking off like rust around her throat when when reaches up to press her lips to the hollow of his chin, his jaw, and the darkest part of his lips. She doesn't think about her horn rising up like a cross between them and she doesn't think about the revolutions of the world. All she thinks about is-- Eik,
Eik
“Eik.” She whispers and the stained glass leaves sing the song of his name as the wind rushes between the branches. The world explodes in sound sharp enough to sting like needles behind her eyes. The sound of this church of theirs is alive! Alive like the sun and the moon and as magical as any constellation in her endless, black dream sky.
“I'm sorry that we missed the sunrise.” She's never been so sorry for a thing in her life, and it brings tears that turn into molten glass before hardening on her cheeks in rivers of refracted light.
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