06-13-2019, 11:11 PM
For her, there is nothing worth remembering.
She flits just out of reach, always has. There are no faces that swim in the periphery when she closes her eyes. There are no names that alight on her tongue when she wakes, startled, from her slumber.
She has touched and been touched, whispered secrets in the dark, coaxed ill-shaped promises from the depths of hearts too shifty to keep them. And she has preferred it this way.
Until now.
It is not loneliness that spurs her into motion. No, she knows exactly how and where to find company should she want it. Instead, it is something she does not have a name for yet. Perhaps it is some longing for a sense of permanence. Perhaps she has grown weary of being temporary.
She passes him by, then thinks better of it, doubles back and settles into the negative space beside him. There is a beat of silence that pulses between them. She mulls over the quiet and the lay of his ears and the irritated swish of his tail like a pendulum. They are warning signs, to be sure, but she has never been particularly good at heeding them.
“Waiting for someone?” she asks finally, turning a dark eye on him. It’s refreshing, she thinks, to happen upon someone so perfectly ordinary. There are no wings, no unnatural color, he does not look the part of someone who might turn to her and breathe fire in her direction. How strange that he should be the odd one out.
it's better to feel pain than nothing at all,
the opposite of love's indifference