There is a part of him that wants to believe, however foolishly, or childishly, or naively, that this other Ipomoea with wings at his shoulders instead of at his fetlocks is who he was meant to be. And that part of him is disappointed when he looks down at the ground and watches his wings flutter open and closed and open again, like outstretched hands reaching for that other world, that other him.
All his life he has been looking to the skies, and wondering if that was where he belonged.
But even if he had wings as strong as an eagles, Ipomoea feels so very heavy now. And he is not so sure he could my anymore, given the chance, or if the earth would allow him. Like a desert poppy Ipomoea has learned how to survive in places he should not have, how to grow roots in soil that was not made for him. And to not only grow, but to grow tall, and strong, and steady — how to shift in the storm but to not be uprooted by it.
Winter may be curling like a snare around his heart, pressing tighter and tighter —
But the heat of the desert was in his veins. And what lay between winter and summer if not spring? And what was spring it not a time to grow a garden, to pull up the weeds and to let the flowers establish?
He wants to remind her that she has made this promise before, and he thought her dead or lost because of it. Ipomoea knows the island is not a content beast, or one to sit by and let a magic that was not its own win out over it. And he knows that when he leaves — it will not be so easy to come back. Not when the rest of the world is promising to be a new garden for him.
This island has only ever been a promise, he sees that now. And a place for promises to be made, and kept, or broken.
Florentine begs a promise from him, and this, too, is only too easy to make for a friend. "I will," he whispers when he presses his nose to her’s and seals his promise with his breath against hers. The frost on the mirror before them cracks into so many bursts of color as his magic grows a bouquet from a long-dead star. "I promise I will." it does not sound like breaking the silence. It feels only like reaching out to the spa ce between their two beating hearts and tugging them closer, inch by inch.
For a moment they stand there like that, two friends watching the snow fall gently on the blooming flowers. And with time he feels his smile returning, as he shares in her warmth.
All his life he has been looking to the skies, and wondering if that was where he belonged.
But even if he had wings as strong as an eagles, Ipomoea feels so very heavy now. And he is not so sure he could my anymore, given the chance, or if the earth would allow him. Like a desert poppy Ipomoea has learned how to survive in places he should not have, how to grow roots in soil that was not made for him. And to not only grow, but to grow tall, and strong, and steady — how to shift in the storm but to not be uprooted by it.
Winter may be curling like a snare around his heart, pressing tighter and tighter —
But the heat of the desert was in his veins. And what lay between winter and summer if not spring? And what was spring it not a time to grow a garden, to pull up the weeds and to let the flowers establish?
He wants to remind her that she has made this promise before, and he thought her dead or lost because of it. Ipomoea knows the island is not a content beast, or one to sit by and let a magic that was not its own win out over it. And he knows that when he leaves — it will not be so easy to come back. Not when the rest of the world is promising to be a new garden for him.
This island has only ever been a promise, he sees that now. And a place for promises to be made, and kept, or broken.
Florentine begs a promise from him, and this, too, is only too easy to make for a friend. "I will," he whispers when he presses his nose to her’s and seals his promise with his breath against hers. The frost on the mirror before them cracks into so many bursts of color as his magic grows a bouquet from a long-dead star. "I promise I will." it does not sound like breaking the silence. It feels only like reaching out to the spa ce between their two beating hearts and tugging them closer, inch by inch.
For a moment they stand there like that, two friends watching the snow fall gently on the blooming flowers. And with time he feels his smile returning, as he shares in her warmth.
@
rising // blooming
