like flowers
we can also choose to bloom
we can also choose to bloom
H
e forgets at times that there are worlds outside of his own. And he forgets that in those worlds there are other people living out their lives, with worries, and dreams, and loves, and fears, pasts and futures —He had forgotten that was why Isra had gone. But he sees it now written in the new scars spread across her hips like constellation maps, in the shadows that have gathered beneath her eyes like she holds the night skies of those other worlds close to her cheek. Never does he stop to ask her was it worth it, or would you do it differently if you had the chance.
He knows. He did not understand before but now, when he looks out across a city and a world that has forgotten what it means to look for the future, oh now he does.
Around them the night and the fireflies are pressing in, and that song he thinks he recognizes is dancing in between them all. So when Ipomoea presses his skin to her’s he is thinking how much like flotsam they are now, stuck in a tide. He wonders how long it will be before the waves pull them apart again (because it will, he knows it will). And when he whispers against her, ”it’s okay,” he is trying to feel the fire, and the bitterness, and the love drowning in the chambers of her heart.
So when he pulls her away into the festival and counts fireflies instead of memories, and deaths, and fallen dreams — it is as much for him as it is for her.
@isra "speaks" <3
