and again and again and rise
He never thought he would be the one staring into the darkness, wondering, dreaming, loving. Or that he would find something — someone — other than death staring back, reaching out, pulling him into that space that is not quite light, not quite dark, but the in-between. She pulls him into that twilight place between shadow and soul where they make their own form of poetry, and music, their own brand of love. There are no shadows there, no saplings framed in golden light, no bones to paint with moss and flowers.
There is only the two of them moving almost-violently in the water, tearing out their own hearts and giving them to each other like gifts.
If he stopped then he might have begun to wonder what this would do to them, if by giving away his heart might begin to understand what death feels like, if by taking her’s he might be remade into a wicked thing haunting the woods. But Ipomoea is burning up, his fever is showing through the tears in his skin, and each taste of her only fans the flames of need dancing in his chest. So he only traces the bone-white lightning running down her neck and across her face with his lips, watches the bright-white pillar of fire rising from her soul, and silently begs her to burn with him.
In the darkness that is left when the moon slips behind a cloud there are only flashes, like snapshots his body will remember long after. He feels her teeth drawing new patterns down his skin, and sees how the curl of her horn looks both soft and sharp with water filling the hollow gaps of it. Her voice when she snarls has his heart stopping and starting at once, his blood burning so hot he thinks it might burn through his skin. There is the press of lips to flesh and the ache of hearts filled with hunger instead of blood, and Ipomoea learns that his bones have always known the pang of hunger.
He never thought he would be the one learning how to love the darkness, how to be feral enough to consume hearts, how to wear blood on his teeth like a poem —
but in the river she teaches him all that and more.
There is only the two of them moving almost-violently in the water, tearing out their own hearts and giving them to each other like gifts.
If he stopped then he might have begun to wonder what this would do to them, if by giving away his heart might begin to understand what death feels like, if by taking her’s he might be remade into a wicked thing haunting the woods. But Ipomoea is burning up, his fever is showing through the tears in his skin, and each taste of her only fans the flames of need dancing in his chest. So he only traces the bone-white lightning running down her neck and across her face with his lips, watches the bright-white pillar of fire rising from her soul, and silently begs her to burn with him.
In the darkness that is left when the moon slips behind a cloud there are only flashes, like snapshots his body will remember long after. He feels her teeth drawing new patterns down his skin, and sees how the curl of her horn looks both soft and sharp with water filling the hollow gaps of it. Her voice when she snarls has his heart stopping and starting at once, his blood burning so hot he thinks it might burn through his skin. There is the press of lips to flesh and the ache of hearts filled with hunger instead of blood, and Ipomoea learns that his bones have always known the pang of hunger.
He never thought he would be the one learning how to love the darkness, how to be feral enough to consume hearts, how to wear blood on his teeth like a poem —
but in the river she teaches him all that and more.
@thana ! <3
”here am i!“
