01-25-2016, 03:06 AM
is crowded w/ lovers & searchers
& leavers so eager to please & forget.
“Doesn’t everyone here appear a bit lonely?”
Maybe not. Not the bodies joined in hushed and close conversation—or those engaged in posturing, like birds bristling out their colourful feathers, their counterparts inspecting the quality of the shades.
Not compared to her own demure seclusion away from the throng. But he feels the need to gentle the moment, having done enough already by revealing her own fears on his tongue. A weakness of his, that clinging tendency towards a sly kind of meanness.
It does not shake easy.
Besides, he knows there can be loneliness even in these playacts.
“There’s nothing wrong with looking lonely, anyway.” Not as far as he is concerned. But then, her early fairytale had been foiled by his own utterly unromantic childhood.
Whether that golden mare could, or would not, talk, he does not know to this day.
Her strange, soft mind-voice, with its usual inflections, had been a poor substitute. She hadn’t thought in full sentences, and he could never communicate to her that they could talk to each other that way, if only she could find some clarity.
So he grew up around a lattice of silence and solitude, always getting the sense from her body, and confusion of thoughts, that she wanted to keep him at arm’s length. Protecting herself from something. From him?
In retrospect, he understands. But at the time, it had only served to fortify himself—a fortress of iron bones and blue stone.
“Besides, by definition, you don’t look it anymore,” he could not make her feel any less remote from the things that once steadied her.
He would if he could, probably. He has never been one to find pleasure in misery.
He has felt pity for horses far less deserving of it than she.
“Xero,” he glances at the bright hair against her dark forehead. He is used to paleness. Silvery, like his own, against gold. But this is sunny. Not pale, but vibrant. She may be used to his own intense colour, but he is still taken by anything not gold-skinned and white-haired, the colour of all his ghosts and the way he imagines darkness would looks like if it took a solid form.
He lingers there, for a second, because it is bright and he wants so badly to feel something warm there. To recognize the beauty, but he is still a work in progress; he is still bleeding out the remnants of his forebearers, purging all that he can.
He quirks his lips, shifting his weight, “I'm not sure what you are looking for, but I am trying to make something. Somewhere. And I can't do it on my own.”
Trashlip and Phina's
BASE BY BRONZEHALO