Mesnyi
She says nothing when he asks, “Aren’t we?” She cannot. She does not know the answer. She is not even sure if she is glad when he speaks again, as if he and the flowers will take their roots and sap whatever contentment remains from her mind. There’s hardly any there, she thinks. That’s why I woke up, isn’t it?
Or was it the quiet?
Mesnyi thinks about his questions for a while, but she does not move, as if she had not heard him at all. And when she does speak, she only looks at his reflection in the water, which is, marginally, easier to look at than his sad, sad eyes. “I believe I was awoken by your coming to the garden,” she says, and she is not certain if this is performance or some dredging up of the heart’s truth. “So that we may each be reminded that we do not traverse these in-between times in solitude.” She isn’t quite sure what it means, not really, but she allows the words to fall from her lips as dewdrops without ceasing. “We are much crueler to ourselves than we need to be. But I have never known anyone who could stop the self-mutilation of the soul.” She licks her lips, and allows her eyes to glance over to him and See. She looks away as quickly, back to his reflection, and her reflection, and the reflection of the moon. Which is most truthful? None of them, she thinks. None of them.
@Ipomoea | "speaks" | notes: ☽☼☾
"You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while."
![[Image: 26y3cfu.png]](https://i.imgur.com/26y3cfu.png)
plotter
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