Most of the spotted boy’s life had been spent in sweet, sweet spring: he was a winter child, true, but that first winter was always the first to be forgotten. The spring that followed was the brightest, the calmest; every breeze whispered new secrets, every blade of grass told a new story. The world was a peaceful thing then, and every discovery was new and exciting.
For Ipomoea, that first spring had never ended; sure the days had grown short again, and the nights longer, but he had never lost that naive hope. Even as he turned five, his youth was as bright and innocent as the day he had been born.
Perhaps it was a good thing, to always be the optimist in the group. Or perhaps it was merely an annoyance to others, tolerated at best. But Po was a child of spring through and through, and even the frowns of others couldn’t shake his daydreams.
”I was only self-loathing and self-reflecting,” she answers him, her tone biting, and he has the good sense to stop short. Empty air fills the space between them, and his ears cock forward uncertainly. For a brief pause, he is silent, mulling over her words and the way she emphasized “self”.
But something in her voice kept him from turning away, suggesting that perhaps she didn’t want to be as alone as she claimed (even if she didn’t yet know it.) And before Po can come up with an adequate response, she’s speaking again. Only this time, she’s accepting his company, albeit grudgingly. He smiles encouragingly at her and takes a few quick, nervous steps closer.
”Do you think it hurts?” his eyes follow hers to the cliff edge, but it’s difficult for him to find an answer. He can’t imagine what it would be like to throw himself over the edge, or even come up with a reason why he might like to. The jagged rocks below paint a gruesome picture in his head, and he looks away quickly.
“I imagine it would,” he says slowly. “But the time in between leaving the cliff and…” he pauses here, and cringes, “…hitting the ground, might be the worst part.”
It seems like such a long way down; plenty of time to realize death was only a few feet away. His wings flutter nervously at his ankles, as if they are imagining the fall already, and already know they would be useless to help.
His eyes move slowly back to the black and red-stained mare. ”But who can really say for sure?”
hearts are breaking
wars are raging on
you’ve got me nervous
i’m at the end of my rope
hey, man, we can’t all be like you
i wish we were all rose-colored too
my rose-colored boy
@
”here am i!“
