08-21-2021, 10:10 PM
liesma
He is not difficult to spot in the darkness with the way he glows such a deep gold.
Not like the moon but like the sun. (Has he trapped the sunlight in his skin, she wonders.)
And even if she had failed to notice him somehow, certainly her attention would have been drawn to the branch beneath his foot that spontaneously catches fire. She watches it burn, her heart beating steady in her throat. (As if she had been caught doing something wrong. As if asking the stars to bend down and embrace her was inherently bad.)
His apology echoes in her ears and she shifts her focus back up to his face but her expression does not change or soften. It is not that she is an unkind thing, it is simply that the daughter of two serious parents has no choice but to be serious herself. (The father is especially serious. She has never seen him smile. To her knowledge, nobody has, not even her mother.) She tilts her fine head, her blaze glowing softly as she thinks about the fire and the sunlight trapped in his skin.
“You’re like the sun,” she says and ventures closer. She doesn’t smile, flirtatious. She is not coy as she studies him, merely observant. She does not speak poetry like her father. She does not speak herself fearsome like her mother. She is only a studious girl.
She does not touch him. She stops herself before she can get close enough. She just looks him in the face, searches the eyes. She is not unkind. She is not cold simply because she does not smile or soften. There is a warmth in her, radiating outward from the center of her chest even if she does not show it in her face.
“Did you set the fire?” she asks. “Did you burn it because it gave you away?”
Not like the moon but like the sun. (Has he trapped the sunlight in his skin, she wonders.)
And even if she had failed to notice him somehow, certainly her attention would have been drawn to the branch beneath his foot that spontaneously catches fire. She watches it burn, her heart beating steady in her throat. (As if she had been caught doing something wrong. As if asking the stars to bend down and embrace her was inherently bad.)
His apology echoes in her ears and she shifts her focus back up to his face but her expression does not change or soften. It is not that she is an unkind thing, it is simply that the daughter of two serious parents has no choice but to be serious herself. (The father is especially serious. She has never seen him smile. To her knowledge, nobody has, not even her mother.) She tilts her fine head, her blaze glowing softly as she thinks about the fire and the sunlight trapped in his skin.
“You’re like the sun,” she says and ventures closer. She doesn’t smile, flirtatious. She is not coy as she studies him, merely observant. She does not speak poetry like her father. She does not speak herself fearsome like her mother. She is only a studious girl.
She does not touch him. She stops herself before she can get close enough. She just looks him in the face, searches the eyes. She is not unkind. She is not cold simply because she does not smile or soften. There is a warmth in her, radiating outward from the center of her chest even if she does not show it in her face.
“Did you set the fire?” she asks. “Did you burn it because it gave you away?”
i see you shining through the treetops
But i don’t feel you pulling strings anymore
But i don’t feel you pulling strings anymore
@Fyr