mourn, and mourn, and mourn
for where we stand, gravity persists
for where we stand, gravity persists
H
is skepticism is delightful on the planes of his face, casting his already cream and chocolate lips into further contrast, his lashes easily throwing spires onto those sharp cheek bones. I eat it up as a drunkard downs his beer - quickly, seemingly sloppily, but not a drip of it falls to touch the earth. Nor do my eyes slip from the prize.
Clucking my tongue, I bares her teeth in something resembling a smile. There is nothing friendly in the motion. Nothing diplomatic. It is barbaric and beautiful and terrifying. Perhaps some old battle-bred girl had worn the same look as they charged into what would only be left soon as blood and bones smeared on turned soil already thick with sweat and loss. I, after all, come from a line of monsters in disguise. It is a look I’ve practiced in the mirror, a look I perfected in training. Even my father pales when he sees me grin.
“Quick, too, eh?” It isn’t really a question at all, despite my tone rising like my pale brows.
Gently, offhandedly, I sweep a loose strand of hair from my forehead, tucking it back into the pin that keeps it from falling into disarray. Some days, my hair is the most lovely thing. Others, it makes me look the monster I know I hide.
Another beat passes, and at last his smile is bright upon his face. It chases the skepticism away, feigned interest pertinent, perky, peaking from the corners of his mouth, beckoning from those chocolate eyes. My brow raises, I step closer.
With barely a breath, I whisper rather dramatically, “Prowling.” My eyes laugh, I know they do. Henry used to both love and hate my dramatics. Miriam would giggle, too, when she was not so lost in my skin or drunk on memories that made her more painting than girl.
But she isn’t here. And he isn’t here. And neither of them would be. This is exactly the sort of place, a place for ghosts and boogeymen, that I know they would not go. No. Miriam does not leave her house unless she must.
I was her must, once.
Pensive, at last, I know there’s a wrinkle in my brow when I’m staring into his torch. It is from more than the light, of course. Does he feel the way my heart beats a little unevenly, a little unsettled? This place does not scare me, and perhaps that makes me more a fool. He does not frighten me, either. I know how easily flesh is cut from bone.
I hate that she’s here even when she isn’t. Miriam. Without looking away from the light, from a face that is not mortal, I return to my haunted volume, saying “Maybe I’m looking for a ghost, too,” as though it’s another comment in passing about the weather.
Miriam is always a force of nature, after all.
Even her memory wrecks me.
”You’re looking for something?”
{ @Dune "speaks" notes: <3 }
