and a softness came from the starlight
and filled me full to the bone
and filled me full to the bone
Aeneas feels her before he hears his name spoken by her tongue.
He is still too young to find the words that explain, well, the way everything passes through him; the way that living things seem to pause, for a moment, within his heart before carrying on. Everyone in his life is a brief flash of lightening across an otherwise blank sky; and always, the electric current runs through him first. She is upset; he is filled with dread, because of it. The emotion is nameless to him, manifested only as a faceless kind of demon—a black deeper and darker than the night, a black that belongs to the deep sea in a storm, a black that has never seen the light—
And then the light is there, and that passes through him, too.
Aeneas. Her relief is nearly tangible. He turns to look at his mother, having gone from radiating light-to-red-to-light-again. Aeneas smiles, a broad, delighted smile. “Mother,” he greets, warmly, and turns his head into her soft touch.
One day, he might learn that the comfort of an embrace is one of the world’s briefest things. The moment is golden, even as it passes from actuality into memory—he looks away from her, to gaze longingly into the storm.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he whispers. Aeneas is quiet for a moment, after; he stares longingly into the wilderness beyond their citadel, into a venture he has yet to undertake. After the silence has stretched, however, he says with piercing, childlike insight: “I am sorry to have made you—to have made you feel… that way.” For Aeneas, there is not yet anger or sadness or loss, only the pit that opens up whenever a heart breaks, no matter how small the fissure.
☾
He is still too young to find the words that explain, well, the way everything passes through him; the way that living things seem to pause, for a moment, within his heart before carrying on. Everyone in his life is a brief flash of lightening across an otherwise blank sky; and always, the electric current runs through him first. She is upset; he is filled with dread, because of it. The emotion is nameless to him, manifested only as a faceless kind of demon—a black deeper and darker than the night, a black that belongs to the deep sea in a storm, a black that has never seen the light—
And then the light is there, and that passes through him, too.
Aeneas. Her relief is nearly tangible. He turns to look at his mother, having gone from radiating light-to-red-to-light-again. Aeneas smiles, a broad, delighted smile. “Mother,” he greets, warmly, and turns his head into her soft touch.
One day, he might learn that the comfort of an embrace is one of the world’s briefest things. The moment is golden, even as it passes from actuality into memory—he looks away from her, to gaze longingly into the storm.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he whispers. Aeneas is quiet for a moment, after; he stares longingly into the wilderness beyond their citadel, into a venture he has yet to undertake. After the silence has stretched, however, he says with piercing, childlike insight: “I am sorry to have made you—to have made you feel… that way.” For Aeneas, there is not yet anger or sadness or loss, only the pit that opens up whenever a heart breaks, no matter how small the fissure.
@Marisol"speaks" space for notes
