you, like Rome,were built on ashes,
and you, like a phoenix,
know how to rise
and resurrect
◦ ☄ ◦
Silence is ripe, a fat plum waiting for her to bite into, juices already seeping from the top, splitting the sides until it's near rotten. And she does bite after its spell grows thin, when webs are cleared, when his eyes are made up of stardust replacing those storms. Her lips peel apart like a song, pale teeth flashing as lightning in the sky instead of a girl on the ground, and there is a smile on her face that he has not (nor has she) seen for ages and ages. Stardust tickles his lashes, making his eyes glow brighter, inhumanly so, and she cannot help but run phantom hands along his brow, painting a crown, painting a story in light, until he is resplendent and decked in the glory of the heavens come to earth. She would stay here an age if she could, staring at him like this. Of course, she's only just arrived, so she wonders who's to say that she can't? Only their breaths are between them, their breaths and their thoughts that dance like lovers. His of growth and death and macabre tales she would curl next to him to hear if only he would tell. Ipomoea is a man of secrets, he wears them well and they make him heavy, make him mortal. Hers are of a song long forgotten, a home and a love that was her first (oh, and she would be her last, wouldn't she? it was always destined. always). Moira was always half realist half dreamer, and tonight her head is stuck in the clouds.
"I would never turn down a chance to see you," she confides with that same glowing smile. Warmth unfurls like a lotus where his lips press to her skin, painting her in the silver she always wished she wore more than the red of her. It shimmers, mockingly, next to the white of her neck, the same white that dapples her left wing. Tonight, she decides, it is alright to let that go. It is alright to be red in a world washed with white. Like a blood-red stain upon the meadow, Moira stands out as a sore thumb. Only when her back sparkles, twinkling as merrily as her eyes, does she start to look a part of Ipomoea's flowers. She winks at him then, sharing a secret that only the two of them know, his conspirator, his secret keeper.
When she leans close, when her wing is a caress along his spine, covering him, holding him near, she speaks more softly than before. Tonight, she would be his song, she would be his melody. Tonight, she would unburden his heart if he would let her - he'd done the same for her with no price to ask, no favors in return.
That is what a friend would do, isn't it?
Golden eyes are cast forward, they do not look up as she speaks, but the gravity is there. Like two planets orbiting one another, she pulls him in again and again. "Are you well?" Are you truly alright? she inquires because even the stardust shining on his lashes and upon his brow cannot hide the weariness that paints darker circles under his luminous eyes.
