I P O M O E A
—
I
f he could measure this moment in flowers, it would be in bouquets of scarlet salvia and myrtle, tulips and poppies. He would press petals against her skin and paint a new story, their story, in all the colors of love, and passion, and the language they speak with looks instead of words. And he wonders if the light-flowers would look more like stars or like Diphylleia filling the hollow curls of her horn, pressed in like promises against a blade. He does not lie to himself by pretending this moment will last forever.
The flowers will all die come morning (he does not know how he knows but oh, he knows), when the sun bleeds the magic from them like so many drops of water evaporating in the desert. In no time at all there will be snow, and winds, and all the hunger of winter gnawing at them from the inside out. Tomorrow he knows, tomorrow the meadow will be only a memory.
But tonight, oh, tonight there is only the press of Thana’s cheek against his, and the whisper of magic whispering in his veins as much as in the pollen, and all those hearts beating between them. And there are the flower paths cutting shapes through the meadow, like another story written in that language of their’s waiting to be explored.
“This world is our’s,” he tells her when they tuck their hips together and turn as one towards the path laid out before them. Pearls are falling from her mane and each one looks like a falling star for him to make wishes on. “I don’t want to be anywhere else tonight.”
And through it all that word, love, is coursing like a river full of algae and lilies, a tide sweeping them together and down, down, down.
He lets himself fall into it. Into her.
I can see the gardens of your soul
wild, unruly, and blooming like crazy
@thana
