“AND DEEP IN OUR SECRET HEARTS
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
Warset struggles to name all the things, all the feelings, twisting around her heart like roots, and vines, and thorns hungry for the pulse. Once, as a star, she might have named them all as easy as she sang the songs of her sister’s light. She can see a constellation made of bonfire reflections in his desert eyes. Her heart knows how to sing of it, how to tell the story of it, and of how it was made to be found in his gaze.
But these lips cannot shape the sounds and there are no words in this mortal language to give name, and color, and shape to all the lyrics she might sing of him. Her lungs stumble over the sounds, the notes, the poetry, and all that comes out is a sigh (light as the wind and just as fat with seed) when he gives nothing more than more emptiness to fill the void of all the things she cannot comprehend of this world.
And if she were softer, less hungry, she might have sobbed at the look in his eyes as his lips arched and curled over the word love.
“I think you might be right.” The words are a mirror echo of that sob she doesn’t know how to make. And if it’s a mirror reflection the glass is stained with hard-water and full of map line cracks of constellations without light. “Love doesn’t exist in this world with all the colors I knew it in once.” The darkness creeps across the horizon, bruise blue thick enough to be black, and she knows that the night is the only color that matters and she’ll never know it again.
Beneath her skin her bones quiver, and shake, like fault lines beneath their hooves. Her wings snap and flicker like logs and embers. Warset strains against the night.
She buries her nose into his flowers, just once more, and her inhale is heavy enough that it’s more language than breathing (and it’s the language of nooses and thorns and dead-stars falling through the dawn). A silver tear beads like a newborn pearl in the corner of her mercury eyes. It does not blink away as a drop of water should when she pulls away.
“I would stay if I could.” The words are soft despite the dull echo of snarl tucked away in the shadows of them. Her wings settle back at her sides with a sigh and the movement almost howls when the air pushes through the metal in her mane. Hunger races through her in a roar and she pulls away, away, away from the boy with the desert and a dream in his gaze.
It’s overrated, anway. Her mind reflects his words back at her like it’s so and gospel instead of words about love. And when she runs from him, and dissolves into her cursed form, the words echo in the tangled mind of a star and a girl like a loop.
The words follow her into the hunt and into the morning.
@Dune
But these lips cannot shape the sounds and there are no words in this mortal language to give name, and color, and shape to all the lyrics she might sing of him. Her lungs stumble over the sounds, the notes, the poetry, and all that comes out is a sigh (light as the wind and just as fat with seed) when he gives nothing more than more emptiness to fill the void of all the things she cannot comprehend of this world.
And if she were softer, less hungry, she might have sobbed at the look in his eyes as his lips arched and curled over the word love.
“I think you might be right.” The words are a mirror echo of that sob she doesn’t know how to make. And if it’s a mirror reflection the glass is stained with hard-water and full of map line cracks of constellations without light. “Love doesn’t exist in this world with all the colors I knew it in once.” The darkness creeps across the horizon, bruise blue thick enough to be black, and she knows that the night is the only color that matters and she’ll never know it again.
Beneath her skin her bones quiver, and shake, like fault lines beneath their hooves. Her wings snap and flicker like logs and embers. Warset strains against the night.
She buries her nose into his flowers, just once more, and her inhale is heavy enough that it’s more language than breathing (and it’s the language of nooses and thorns and dead-stars falling through the dawn). A silver tear beads like a newborn pearl in the corner of her mercury eyes. It does not blink away as a drop of water should when she pulls away.
“I would stay if I could.” The words are soft despite the dull echo of snarl tucked away in the shadows of them. Her wings settle back at her sides with a sigh and the movement almost howls when the air pushes through the metal in her mane. Hunger races through her in a roar and she pulls away, away, away from the boy with the desert and a dream in his gaze.
It’s overrated, anway. Her mind reflects his words back at her like it’s so and gospel instead of words about love. And when she runs from him, and dissolves into her cursed form, the words echo in the tangled mind of a star and a girl like a loop.
The words follow her into the hunt and into the morning.
@
