like flowers
we can also choose to bloom
we can also choose to bloom
H
e can still see the meadow when he closes his eyes. It’s a blaze of color, its image searing itself in his mind until all he can see is the green of the moor-grass and the red of the poppies, and the impossibly blue sky stretching endlessly overhead.Ipomoea stands there, surrounded by a sea of wildflowers that reach out to him with petals as soft as silk, and he sighs. The wind curls itself through his mane, and it follows its direction easily - his braids are gone, and the wind seems to delight in curling its fingers through the long, dark tresses. He can feel it tugging, tugging, until he turns his head to follow it.
And then he sees her.
Her wings are stretched wide, so wide his own wings tremble and raise themselves in jealousy. He wonders, for a moment, why she stands there like an earthbound bird, wings aching for the sky and wind but her legs staying stubbornly rooted to the earth. He knows - without knowing how he knows, being earthbound himself - that the wildflowers must look lovely from the air, that the wind must taste sweeter above the meadows. And he wonders why any creature that had the means to fly would deny it to themselves. He likes to think he would not, if his wings were to wake up tomorrow with wings upon his back, wings large enough and strong enough to lift him high. He likes to think he would never come back down, if he were able to fly.
He isn’t sure when he began to walk again, or why in an open sea with nothing but flowers and sunlight in every direction he chose to cross paths with her. But the grasses whispering against his sides sound like they’re inviting him to come closer, and the wind still whipping through his mane feels like its tugging him to her. Ipomoea has always listened to the earth, has always gone where the flowers directed him; he leans in now, his steps light and quick.
But when she turns to stare at him, he does not miss the hollow aching in her voice, the fragile glass-slick look to her eyes, and it has him stopping in his tracks. The flowers curl around his ankles, as if rooting him in place.
When he first opens his mouth, nothing comes out. His heart leaps into his throat, threatening to choke him, and the wind feels suddenly cold against his cheek. It is not until he swallows thickly, and breaks the grasp of the flowers when he takes a step backwards, that he finds his words.
"I’m sorry, I did not mean to startle you," he says, and his voice is barely louder than the shush, shush, shushing of the wind. He swallows again. "I’ll go, if you want me to-" Already he is taking another step backwards, the flowers straightening again as he leaves their embrace. And yet -
And yet there is something in her eyes that has him hesitating, teetering between leaving and staying.
"-Can I help you? Do you need help?"
@solstice "speaks" <3
