04-20-2021, 10:52 PM
His father had told him what love meant but he thinks his father must have been wrong.
It has to be his willingness (his borderline urgency) to lay himself down at her feet, to flay himself alive, to bleed himself dry for her. It has to be the fact that he so strongly believes that he had been constructed for this exactly, to stand here and think that his heart was built to beat out the shape of her name. His lungs were crafted specifically to breathe the air she expelled.
And she steps back and flexes her wings and she is the most beautiful thing he will ever see. He knows that and he thinks he could die now and it would be all right because he would have seen all he needed to see. He would have experienced all he needed to experience because he had so gently touched the tip of her wing and he had spoken her name and she had touched him sweetly enough to reorient his pulse and what more was there to life than that?
He is much too serious to understand what it means to be teased in this way so he only looks at her, his brow dark and frank as he shakes his head and turns away from her.
(And oh! How coy he could have been! How flirtatious! How he could have wooed her with a charming grin and a sly remark about how many ideas he had about other ways they could have passed the time! But he is a simple boy built for worship and precious little more. He was not built for flirtation, only poetry.)
He draws in a breath. “No, I will teach you now, I promised you I would,” he tells her and flexes his own wings. (His father had taught him in the interim, though his father’s wings were somehow both draconic and arborous.)
“The most important thing is to trust that your wings will carry you, that they won’t let you fall,” he tells her and stretches his pale wings out wide, nodding as if to encourage her to do the same.
It has to be his willingness (his borderline urgency) to lay himself down at her feet, to flay himself alive, to bleed himself dry for her. It has to be the fact that he so strongly believes that he had been constructed for this exactly, to stand here and think that his heart was built to beat out the shape of her name. His lungs were crafted specifically to breathe the air she expelled.
And she steps back and flexes her wings and she is the most beautiful thing he will ever see. He knows that and he thinks he could die now and it would be all right because he would have seen all he needed to see. He would have experienced all he needed to experience because he had so gently touched the tip of her wing and he had spoken her name and she had touched him sweetly enough to reorient his pulse and what more was there to life than that?
He is much too serious to understand what it means to be teased in this way so he only looks at her, his brow dark and frank as he shakes his head and turns away from her.
(And oh! How coy he could have been! How flirtatious! How he could have wooed her with a charming grin and a sly remark about how many ideas he had about other ways they could have passed the time! But he is a simple boy built for worship and precious little more. He was not built for flirtation, only poetry.)
He draws in a breath. “No, I will teach you now, I promised you I would,” he tells her and flexes his own wings. (His father had taught him in the interim, though his father’s wings were somehow both draconic and arborous.)
“The most important thing is to trust that your wings will carry you, that they won’t let you fall,” he tells her and stretches his pale wings out wide, nodding as if to encourage her to do the same.
oh, i loved you with the good and the careless of me
but it all goes bad
@[Stellaria]