She does need space.
She does need space, but not from Phaedrus. She does need space, but from what lingers in the edge of the meadow flashing blinding sparks of silver at her eyes.
“Can I help?” He asks her.
Could he? She doesn’t think so, not when she can’t even say out loud what haunts her. She does need space, but space from midnight. She does need space, but space from his calculative black eyes that hunger for something in her that she doesn’t have to give.
Space from ‘always’…
He must mean well when he asks, but he also must read it in her eyes that she’s not interested in talking (not about this; him), because he moves on after shifting his wings. Her own wings are at her side, basic black, because even though she remembers a time when they could change at her will she has not quite mastered the craft of it in reality.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she answers him, which is true. She feels proud of herself for answering without lying. It isn’t often that she can anymore.
“Too much noise.”
And that was also true, even if not in the way that he’ll think she means. He’ll assume she slept akin to a creek that bubbled laughter as it ran across the rocks. He’ll assume that the wind was howling in her ears, calling her out of her dreams.
He won’t assume that the noise was in her head.
He won’t know how loud memories can be.
atlantia
this is a poem about
how you never get the kiss you want
when you want it;