Stella almost forgets tonight.
She chases erasure, flushed and fingering loose the tight knots of her heavy once-was. That which wraps around her like an overbearing, unwelcome caress. It does not love, it only greeds. It folds her under the weight of itself, making her smaller and smaller in the process. Subsuming the tangled, delicate lights of her astral soul; ebbing, like hungry, swart mouths, all the marvellous beauty that came before. (Long before…) It makes her, it; a singular being, swaddled too-tight in memory, creasing the lovely lines of her face and mooring her spirit to a tombstone of moss-grown marble and far, far, far too many names to count.
Were her lips not black, they would be stained a pale pink, phantoms of a deep red with hints of oak. As it is, her breath is a sweet bouquet of smoke and vanilla, her eyes a little less focused than they ought to be. She smiles, twirls; laughs as she passes by merry-makers in clutches of moonlight, they themselves liquid and fruity; dry, astringent, soft, delicate notes of horsehair and sweat and spirits spilt on yellowing grass. Lute sounds like violet, flute like bright, bombastic pink against the blackened blue of night. A septillion blinking stars (nameless, unknown, strangers in a strange land) gyrate around a single, indeterminate point it space, swirling against the bright, impressionist sky.
She disappears into it.
She disappears into it, her tail – (too long; and how annoying, the braids are falling out, letting loose; oh well) – carving the curved meander she makes into the dirt and clusters of light-hewn poppies, mallow, and beardtongue. She follows not the stars tonight (for the refuse to stand still) but the distant sound of music, a much more earthly thing than the star-gazer is accustomed. She smiles – it is a watery, bright smile – as she skips towards the bank of the Rapax; her astronomical instruments thumping precipitously against her sides, the agouti and white fur shifting on her back. She takes a moment, never stopping just shifting ever-more sideways, to reach back and pull it straight with her teeth, giggling softly. “Manere posuit.”
It is the strings of lights, like processions of fae in the night, that catch her eye, head jerking up to watch with silent, gaping awe. They furl themselves around the throat of a nearby woman, like a necklace of argent starlight; crown a man like living, illumined jewels. She steps forward, head tilting, fur shifting, instruments thumping; silver hooves tracing a small, inelegant pirouette. They unwind, in a tightly choreographed gesture, from the hair of a stranger. Slipping through the chill air, with the faintest hum, they find her jealous skin – curling up her leg and breastbone to touch with tickling tenderness the swanlike curve of her neck.
She giggles, pale lashes fluttering shut as she begins to hums an old trapper’s ballad – of maidens bonny-wild upon bedsheets of bear-pelt – and to her bawdy delights they flocks, festooning the nooks of her form in light.
She chases erasure, flushed and fingering loose the tight knots of her heavy once-was. That which wraps around her like an overbearing, unwelcome caress. It does not love, it only greeds. It folds her under the weight of itself, making her smaller and smaller in the process. Subsuming the tangled, delicate lights of her astral soul; ebbing, like hungry, swart mouths, all the marvellous beauty that came before. (Long before…) It makes her, it; a singular being, swaddled too-tight in memory, creasing the lovely lines of her face and mooring her spirit to a tombstone of moss-grown marble and far, far, far too many names to count.
Were her lips not black, they would be stained a pale pink, phantoms of a deep red with hints of oak. As it is, her breath is a sweet bouquet of smoke and vanilla, her eyes a little less focused than they ought to be. She smiles, twirls; laughs as she passes by merry-makers in clutches of moonlight, they themselves liquid and fruity; dry, astringent, soft, delicate notes of horsehair and sweat and spirits spilt on yellowing grass. Lute sounds like violet, flute like bright, bombastic pink against the blackened blue of night. A septillion blinking stars (nameless, unknown, strangers in a strange land) gyrate around a single, indeterminate point it space, swirling against the bright, impressionist sky.
She disappears into it.
She disappears into it, her tail – (too long; and how annoying, the braids are falling out, letting loose; oh well) – carving the curved meander she makes into the dirt and clusters of light-hewn poppies, mallow, and beardtongue. She follows not the stars tonight (for the refuse to stand still) but the distant sound of music, a much more earthly thing than the star-gazer is accustomed. She smiles – it is a watery, bright smile – as she skips towards the bank of the Rapax; her astronomical instruments thumping precipitously against her sides, the agouti and white fur shifting on her back. She takes a moment, never stopping just shifting ever-more sideways, to reach back and pull it straight with her teeth, giggling softly. “Manere posuit.”
It is the strings of lights, like processions of fae in the night, that catch her eye, head jerking up to watch with silent, gaping awe. They furl themselves around the throat of a nearby woman, like a necklace of argent starlight; crown a man like living, illumined jewels. She steps forward, head tilting, fur shifting, instruments thumping; silver hooves tracing a small, inelegant pirouette. They unwind, in a tightly choreographed gesture, from the hair of a stranger. Slipping through the chill air, with the faintest hum, they find her jealous skin – curling up her leg and breastbone to touch with tickling tenderness the swanlike curve of her neck.
She giggles, pale lashes fluttering shut as she begins to hums an old trapper’s ballad – of maidens bonny-wild upon bedsheets of bear-pelt – and to her bawdy delights they flocks, festooning the nooks of her form in light.
Hover for translation
@Ipomoea
@Ipomoea
☽
