m o i r a
the wine we really drink is our own blood.
our bodies ferment in these barrels.
our bodies ferment in these barrels.
F
or a moment, just a moment, Moira thinks she can hear his heart pounding; the defiance of it screaming through his blood like a jet plane crashing, falling down to the ground in a heaping pile of flames and fury, fighting with its last breath to save everything - everyone - vying for life inside. If you look within them, you might ask who would be the phoenix, and who a pile of ash, a memory floating away on the winds of war? Amber eyes are not cresting with tears, lashes do not glimmer as though a million diamonds vie for the attention of any who look her way. Her lips do not tremble while she watches him fight every word he wants to utter. Instead, he is a menagerie of emotions all kept hidden within. Hidden as her own heart, her own voice, should have been moments ago. The phoenix cannot bring herself to regret what she's said, but the cutting look, the feeling of loss and hurt and chasms opening when he snaps goodnight, it is a slap across the face.
No amount of isolation and solitude could prepare her for the pang that echoes through the caverns of her body, races to the stars to be free, to feel what it is to live before it knows what it's like to die, to be forgotten. In his chest another dreamer lives as the one in hers does, yet they are too blind to see. Now, with only the disappearing of his ghostly tail, with only her books and thoughts to whisper around her, does she realize the error she may have made. Brows draw together as a soft "Goodbye, my friend," floats into the air like the cracking of her heart.
Some abysses are meant to be made. Some darkness is meant to make you strong. Others force the realization of mortality down her throat. Moira feels as though she's drowning, as though some hope as small as a sparrow has just fallen, frozen from a bough. Perhaps, were she less horrified of her own actions and his revelations, she would have chased after him. Instead, wings tuck tight and chin tips higher, eyes harden, darken, and she turns to the scrolls to pull out a book. Absently the pages drift open to that drawing, a single drawing, of a girl with wings and her family who will never know what it is to fly.
@Eik | "speaks" | fini <3 thank you for such a wonderful encounter my friend !
