[AW] where does the good go

[Florentine]

i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls

Ipomoea is tight beneath her touch. Sorrow is bitter upon the air and how it holds him as still as stone beneath her embrace. Yet slowly, slowly, he unspools his sorrow at her touch. His sigh leaves him like a flock of birds set free from an aviary. Florentine hears the flutter of their wings pressing against Po’s lungs as he sets them loose.
 
Her eyes stay open even as they grow heavy with the weight of this reunion. How could she ever let them close when her friend has made a meadow enough to rival the gods? She drinks into her eyes, her heart, her soul, every flower painted in so many colours that Florentine is sure they have no name yet. Is this the courage of stars and worlds? To make from nothingness something beautiful?
 
She does not draw from him, but finally closes her eyes as she feels him lean in to her. His tears are still bitter upon her lips but she holds them there for time will dry them, like dew from a petal. Her breath rolls over the curve of his shoulder, warm like a consoling touch. Oh, could they stay like this forever? Would they find this flower girl and flower boy woven in roots and vines, twined together in their lament for Delumine. Flowers and leaves adorning their torsos and petals falling like tears.
 
No. Neither were made for sorrow such as this.
 
Slowly Flora steps from him as he looks to her and how a piece of her pulls free. She might never get it back, she knows, but she does not worry. He is softer now, wearing a smile as tentative as the dawn. Her own smile greets it in golden sunlight.
 
“Too long,” the Dusk girl agrees. “But we had to tend to our own homes. Each of us.” She says, as if she might know the guilt that haunts his dark gaze. She is not sorry it has been so long and she is not sorry he had not come to help Terrastella. Why would she be? Her curls press and brush about her throat and already there is a pillow of petals at her feet.
 
She watches their bird, the tip of its wings, the way sunlight pours liquid and bright across its body. It spirals and is gone and at once the forest seems more still and more quiet than ever before. “You could not keep me from you if you tried, Po.” And the flower girl presses a kiss upon his cheek.

@Ipomoea

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world