[P] opened up his little heart;

[Sabine]

s a b i n e who are you when nobody's watching She had been dreaming for five days straight by the time letter was laid at her feet.  What of, you wonder? If you had asked her, she might have tilted her head and smiled. She might have said, in that violet-marlene-dietrich hum, that she could not remember. And you would have known she was lying.  As it was, she was not asked such a question; after all, who was left to care?  Her caramel-candyfloss hair was too knotted for hitchhikers to run their hands through. Though her bones yawned like earth-spun boughs, straining to peer up at the naked sun through the curtain of her skin, each bird that swept down would find her spine too slippery with salt and grief to perch upon. She was swimming in a sea of corpses. Sabine did not know how she found the energy to translate symbols into words and words into sentences and sentences into meaning. But that had been three days ago and somehow, by a tirade of small miracles, she now found herself standing in the throng of Denocte's morning song. There were still-warm gaps in her memory, as if something honest had been there and only recently decamped -- but, still, out of her reach they remained.  In truth, it did not matter how she had got here or why she had read that strange letter even after declaring herself cadaverous. All that mattered was the gentle ache in her ribs that screamed and screamed and screamed of the death borne against her name, and most importantly, of all the loss that was still yet to come.

art created by The-Day-of-Shadow | table by kezz

@abel