He knows it hurts.
All those moons tearing through her,
all the wanting and unwanting, quivering like cicadas,
ebbing and flowing like tides, following a pattern that could be known but never understood. A pattern he knows but does not understand.
As a boy he used to stand at the water’s edge on that endless black beach, looking out at the horizon. He never went in- it was too cold, and the current too strong. In that place, nothing good came of the ocean. Most called it the blue devil, and to enter it was to never leave. But oh, even then he knew (somehow he knew!) there was more to it than death. There had to be more.
But he could not begin to imagine what the ocean would give to him.
She stands before him, a flame flickering in a multitude of different colors, some of which are beyond his wildest imagination. (but then again, imagination was not his strength) And oh, how something inside of him splits into a hundred fault lines when she says his name. It is something porous, and hungry, and full of empty spaces for roots to take hold.
"I needed to see it," she says.
“I know,” he replies softly, a lamentation. “So tell me, Isra, what do you see?” Her name is so sweet on his lips, he can’t help but to say it, and to repeat it over and over again in his mind Isra, Isra, Isra. The vine on the wall that erupted into flowers continues to snake its way up the abandoned building, shedding cream-colored petals that fall to the sandy ground.
Eik tastes her words, her blood, her magic, and the roots deepen and tighten. He feels something inside of him soften, yet he still presses against her in a way that is almost violent. Sometimes violence is the only vessel that can hold sorrow, and anger, and desire all at once… But they can’t exist in equal measures for long. Two of the three begin to crumble and one begins to rise, not unlike the creeping vine that sheds its flowers as it climbs. Isra, Isra, Isra, His lips press her name into her cheek, her ear, her hair. The air rises in a snakelike dance where it dares to touch their skin.
When she pulls, a great rush of heat blooms between them, tinder that yearned to burn, and burn, and burn. For the first time in a long time he is not thinking about vengeance or rebuilding or the places he loves (canyons shaped over eons by wind and rain, dunes of sand like hip bones and spines, the ocean at sunrise) but just a woman. A woman who is more than just a woman. “I will never leave you,” he wraps her with intent, shows her how every cell of his body is bursting with it.
“I want you,” he groans, whisper-soft, and his words are bursting with all the heat and magic in him. “Let me show you how much I want you”
@IsraAll those moons tearing through her,
all the wanting and unwanting, quivering like cicadas,
ebbing and flowing like tides, following a pattern that could be known but never understood. A pattern he knows but does not understand.
As a boy he used to stand at the water’s edge on that endless black beach, looking out at the horizon. He never went in- it was too cold, and the current too strong. In that place, nothing good came of the ocean. Most called it the blue devil, and to enter it was to never leave. But oh, even then he knew (somehow he knew!) there was more to it than death. There had to be more.
But he could not begin to imagine what the ocean would give to him.
She stands before him, a flame flickering in a multitude of different colors, some of which are beyond his wildest imagination. (but then again, imagination was not his strength) And oh, how something inside of him splits into a hundred fault lines when she says his name. It is something porous, and hungry, and full of empty spaces for roots to take hold.
"I needed to see it," she says.
“I know,” he replies softly, a lamentation. “So tell me, Isra, what do you see?” Her name is so sweet on his lips, he can’t help but to say it, and to repeat it over and over again in his mind Isra, Isra, Isra. The vine on the wall that erupted into flowers continues to snake its way up the abandoned building, shedding cream-colored petals that fall to the sandy ground.
Eik tastes her words, her blood, her magic, and the roots deepen and tighten. He feels something inside of him soften, yet he still presses against her in a way that is almost violent. Sometimes violence is the only vessel that can hold sorrow, and anger, and desire all at once… But they can’t exist in equal measures for long. Two of the three begin to crumble and one begins to rise, not unlike the creeping vine that sheds its flowers as it climbs. Isra, Isra, Isra, His lips press her name into her cheek, her ear, her hair. The air rises in a snakelike dance where it dares to touch their skin.
When she pulls, a great rush of heat blooms between them, tinder that yearned to burn, and burn, and burn. For the first time in a long time he is not thinking about vengeance or rebuilding or the places he loves (canyons shaped over eons by wind and rain, dunes of sand like hip bones and spines, the ocean at sunrise) but just a woman. A woman who is more than just a woman. “I will never leave you,” he wraps her with intent, shows her how every cell of his body is bursting with it.
“I want you,” he groans, whisper-soft, and his words are bursting with all the heat and magic in him. “Let me show you how much I want you”
Time makes fools of us all
