05-03-2020, 04:53 PM
choke them on the ashes of the dreams they burned
She is made of light and stardust, and he is made of darkness and sorrow. He watches her from the edge of the wood, and should she just glance to the side she would perhaps see the glowing red of his eyes, but little else. Here in the dark the shadows of his body are indiscernible from the shadows of the forest, and he knows that should he just close his eyes he would all but disappear. He used to, at first. He used to be afraid of them – anyone – seeing him, he didn’t want to taste the fear that unfurled from them as soon as they caught sight of the glowing red eyes staring back at them from the never-ending darkness of his face.
But he is captivated by the way she disappears and materializes as stardust. He is enraptured by the idea that someone can turn into something beautiful and not something horrendous. She does not crave fear and sadness and anger, he thinks. She does not survive off all the things terrible in this world, and he is so sure that she would be appalled by anyone that does.
It’s why he doesn’t know why he walks towards her.
He peels himself from the shadows, and in this dying light it is not as noticable when the darkness of him wavers like a living thing. He steps towards her slowly, cautiously, like he is afraid he might startle the starlight back into the sky should he move too fast. In the twilight the red of his eyes is not as harsh, and the light strains through the wispy shadows of his mane and his tail when he asks in a voice that sounds unfurls like smoke and tastes like ash, “Who are you?”
But he is captivated by the way she disappears and materializes as stardust. He is enraptured by the idea that someone can turn into something beautiful and not something horrendous. She does not crave fear and sadness and anger, he thinks. She does not survive off all the things terrible in this world, and he is so sure that she would be appalled by anyone that does.
It’s why he doesn’t know why he walks towards her.
He peels himself from the shadows, and in this dying light it is not as noticable when the darkness of him wavers like a living thing. He steps towards her slowly, cautiously, like he is afraid he might startle the starlight back into the sky should he move too fast. In the twilight the red of his eyes is not as harsh, and the light strains through the wispy shadows of his mane and his tail when he asks in a voice that sounds unfurls like smoke and tastes like ash, “Who are you?”
