when lost -

[Ipomoea]

IPOMOEA so lay me down in golden dandelions  There is suffering on this island. The sounds each star makes as it shatters echoes inside of his chest until his heart aches, until the magic is bleeding and bleeding and bleeding out from him -- and there is nothing for it to bleed out onto. There is only the spaces between dying stars, between one heartbeat and nothing, and oh, it burns inside of him. It burns at the corners of his eyes and spiderwebs like lightning across the backs of his eyes, it makes the blood in his veins turbulent and froth like the sea at high tide. He can feel the agony of it, of all those dying stars, but more than that -- Ipomoea can feel each wish crumbling to ash and dust on his tongue. He turns to it. He turns to the agony, and the suffering, and for each star that dies he draws another line across his heart and whispers the words a unicorn had taught him all those years ago beside a silver lake: that is enough. Ipomoea is no unicorn made for tearing worlds apart and carving ravines to catch the runoff and tears and blood but oh, oh -- oh! He is made to grow gardens, to pluck the weeds and let the flowers stand tall and bright. And he has learned how to be brave, and sharp, and how to cut his teeth against diamonds so that others might never learn how it feels to bite down on bones. So he is not thinking of this red-eyed stranger when he leaves him there, or when he catches dreams between his teeth and tucks them close to his heart (because the gods had never done so, but he will, he will, he will.) He is only thinking of all the ones he was not able to save. @lyr ”here am I!”

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