in the garden
i will die
i will die
I
know now that my heart has only ever been an hourglass. I can feel the sand in it, weighing it down, filling my body with every beat. More sand, more time, more life trickles out of it with every breath.I don’t have to wonder how much time is left in it. A part of me has always known it was running out, has already seen that I am approaching the end.
All I wonder is if this is what it has been counting towards.
There’s a mixed feeling of dread and anticipation rising like the sun inside of me as I take step after step deeper into the desert, and it feels as though there are two Ipomoea’s in me. One of them is desperate to turn back west, to run far, far away from here. But I can barely hear the trees and the grass calling to me now; and as their voices fade, so too does the flower-crowned boy in me begin to quiet. As if he and I both know he’s too far gone for the other Ipomoea to listen to. And as much as I may will myself to turn around, my body only ever betrays me.
I clutch the spear tightly to my side, hanging on to it as if it is my only lifeline out here in the sea of sand. And there is a moment, however fleeting, when I see the man waiting beside the dune and I think, Is this meant for you? I want to ask who he is, or what he’s waiting for, but I don’t. Because the man seems to be waiting for me - in his eyes is recognition, expectation. He doesn’t speak to me in words, but as he turns into the desert his hooves whisper a command to me from across the sand: follow me.
I do not hesitate.
The midday sun is louder than the morning one.
And I follow, my nose pressed hungrily into the summer wind like a wolf following a trail of blood. The forest no longer calls to me from afar, and I no longer ache to hear its voice. All there is, is sand and sun and scorching heat, and that desert beast in my chest coming awake. And it is calling for its pound of flesh.
@Dune "speaks" notes
