— and how long must I stay, will I lay by your side
just to say that I'm yours and you'll never be mine —
just to say that I'm yours and you'll never be mine —
She is immediately put at ease by his amiable tone, and she again feels warmth spread inside of her chest. For a moment the ache in her heart doesn’t seem as strong— the crack suddenly not as deep. She hadn’t realized how badly she craved interaction, until this moment. How she needed to hear someone’s voice, especially in this newfound darkness, because she couldn’t bear the sound of her own thoughts. She isn’t the type that fares well alone, she has come to realize that, and the idea unsettles her.
“That’s good, because I didn’t really want to leave,” she says with a quiet laugh, and she closes the space that had existed between them. The dark has left her feeling overly exposed and she is grateful for friendly company — or any company at all. She turns her eyes to the sky at his question, as if she has not already looked for the sun a hundred or so times. She shakes her head with an apologetic smile, the copper-colored strands of her hair swaying easily across the smooth glass of her neck and along the angles of her face. “I’m afraid I don’t. Has anyone tried asking it nicely to come back?” She teases, but it is clearly forced — her gaze is still angled upward, where the moon continues to fully block the sun, and she feels the dread begin to settle like ice beneath her skin once more. She is young, and this was the first strange event that she has witnessed happening; she is learning that she doesn’t like the unknown, or the way the darkness feels like hundreds of eyes watching her.
“Gale,” she repeats his name, and she likes how light it feels in her glass mouth. It brings a smile to her lips, and through the dark some of the worry fades from her light-colored eyes when she looks back to him. “Why do you think the eclipse is lasting so long?” she asks him with a cautious optimism, searching for a single thread of hope to cling to; that maybe this stranger in the meadow has the faintest idea what is happening.
“That’s good, because I didn’t really want to leave,” she says with a quiet laugh, and she closes the space that had existed between them. The dark has left her feeling overly exposed and she is grateful for friendly company — or any company at all. She turns her eyes to the sky at his question, as if she has not already looked for the sun a hundred or so times. She shakes her head with an apologetic smile, the copper-colored strands of her hair swaying easily across the smooth glass of her neck and along the angles of her face. “I’m afraid I don’t. Has anyone tried asking it nicely to come back?” She teases, but it is clearly forced — her gaze is still angled upward, where the moon continues to fully block the sun, and she feels the dread begin to settle like ice beneath her skin once more. She is young, and this was the first strange event that she has witnessed happening; she is learning that she doesn’t like the unknown, or the way the darkness feels like hundreds of eyes watching her.
“Gale,” she repeats his name, and she likes how light it feels in her glass mouth. It brings a smile to her lips, and through the dark some of the worry fades from her light-colored eyes when she looks back to him. “Why do you think the eclipse is lasting so long?” she asks him with a cautious optimism, searching for a single thread of hope to cling to; that maybe this stranger in the meadow has the faintest idea what is happening.
hourglass
— with this love like a hole,
swallow my soul —
swallow my soul —