you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
He is not looking at the other horse walking through the trees, or at the leaves falling down and landing like dust and snow across their backs, or even at the flowers that are wrapping their petals around his fetlocks, begging him to fall into them. He doesn’t hear them, but whether it’s because he doesn’t want to or because the way she looks at him is deafening, he’ll never know.
All he sees is her.
So when she turns her head and stares like something wild into the forest, he leans in. Her mane pulls away to show the white streak running down it like something bright and furious and ripping the canvas of her in two, and Ipomoea presses his lips against it. He thinks he can feel her blood thrumming, just there beneath her skin, and he imagines it’s something equal parts rot and life and screaming to be let out.
He does not know what if feels like to have an entire forest dying around him (everything has always been blooming, and growing, and reaching). But he brushes the dust away from her spine like he knows, like there’s something inside of him that is aching at the sight of all that green clinging to his heels. With her Ipomoea can pretend he knows the sound of dying things, and that he doesn’t hate it when he can’t make everything live.
He traces the white streak with his lips from end to end, from the point it appears at her wither to where it disappears in the hair behind her in. He does not ask her what she sees between the trees, the same as he does not ask her to stay beside him. But he holds his lips to her skin and breathes her in while he waits for her to decide.
And when she pulls him after her he turns, and Ipomoea does not think twice before following her into the dying forest. He doesn’t stop to consider that if he tried, he might bring it all back to life. He only runs, and runs, and runs, and the flowers follow him.
@thana
All he sees is her.
So when she turns her head and stares like something wild into the forest, he leans in. Her mane pulls away to show the white streak running down it like something bright and furious and ripping the canvas of her in two, and Ipomoea presses his lips against it. He thinks he can feel her blood thrumming, just there beneath her skin, and he imagines it’s something equal parts rot and life and screaming to be let out.
He does not know what if feels like to have an entire forest dying around him (everything has always been blooming, and growing, and reaching). But he brushes the dust away from her spine like he knows, like there’s something inside of him that is aching at the sight of all that green clinging to his heels. With her Ipomoea can pretend he knows the sound of dying things, and that he doesn’t hate it when he can’t make everything live.
He traces the white streak with his lips from end to end, from the point it appears at her wither to where it disappears in the hair behind her in. He does not ask her what she sees between the trees, the same as he does not ask her to stay beside him. But he holds his lips to her skin and breathes her in while he waits for her to decide.
And when she pulls him after her he turns, and Ipomoea does not think twice before following her into the dying forest. He doesn’t stop to consider that if he tried, he might bring it all back to life. He only runs, and runs, and runs, and the flowers follow him.
@thana
