What's a king to a god
it knows her – or he knows her – it is uncertain which unravels when it beholds her, where one becomes the other and it is hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. it knows her the way oceans know the earth, or the dark knows the light, or the way planets in their centurial travel may eclipse one another with unnerving familiarity. if she were the moon – and one were scarce to doubt her gravity, pulling – he were the shadow drawn in the creeping spaces that dreams could only touch. it remembers hunger, vigor, and lust grinding the cathedral of his ribs, the base of his spine. it remembers wildness.
his silhouette nestles in the places moonlight cannot touch – though it strains, warily, filtered through shuddering leaves at the border of the path so that it draws sparks and glimmers from his gold-lined flesh. fireflies gather abreast, and it is hard to say that he is not merely a wraith in this nightfallen court; they too, learn the value of gold as they kiss the sweat from his shoulders and dance along the sharp lines that comprise him. his eyes, like two shallow moons amid a great stygian sea, are not unlike those hovering fellows when he blinks away the woods and fills them with the sight of her.
it is the whole forest that waits with him when she draws her breath to speak, trees swaying back on their roots to settle in cupid admiration. the branches reach for her, the path greets her in silvery clouds of unsettled dust. the thing that is erasmus dreams her dream, that of fog laden forests teemed with feral, sharp things that howl beneath a full moon. and when she draws her invitation to the dark, the dark smiles greedily beneath the weight of her eyes.
erasmus sweeps from the graceless paths beyond, and the moon bathes his contours in cool hues, quelling the fire in his core. he approaches from the mouth of the forest behind her, humming contentedly as he passes the tight curve of her hips, “so may it be.” like unholy prayer whispered into the dark places between them. he draws past her with a wolfish prowl and stops just before her to turn back, as if gracefully extending an arm into the dark paths that wind on, on, feasting shamelessly on her image. “shall we?”
Who don't believe in anything
♤♧
