There's a song in your lung and a dream in your eye. (Perse)

[perse]

i wanted pomegranates— i wanted darkness— i wanted him. It is her pride and joy, the mark – the only memory He deigned to breathe upon her skin, branding her as His. She wishes it were more prominent, that her whole body was marked as His, that she could proclaim to the world to whom she belonged, from whence she came. Instead, there is a vast swath of silver across her body, unmarked, glistening like something molten and ready to be made. (She is the dead spit of her mother, down to the mark – though hers is on her neck rather than her hip – and she distantly remembers thinking of her mother as beautiful, but that was long ago, before her Becoming, before she was a thing transformed.) The lips touch and it is strange, in a way, to be touched so intimately by someone who is not Him. Her skin prickles at the touch, the now shared knowledge of His mark (strange, undecipherable symbols that seemed to change shape before the eyes, written in a language she does not understand). The mark has always been private, in a way, her secret hidden beneath the sheath of silver mane. Still, she enjoys the touch, her body having gone so long without contact. “Yes,” she says, but the way she says it, breathy and soft, tells of other things, “and I’m glad for it.” p e r s e ------------------------------cordis x spyndle