She swirls and sings - any.

[Nyxia]

my friend makes rings, she swirls and sings
she’s a mystic in the sense that she’s still mystified by things

She is like a doe caught, Stayed by the shock of his greeting and then his silence. She turns, stops mid-step and blinks. If stillness could ward him away, she wishes it would soon—and wishes at once that it does not. She watches him with wide, golden eyes until he does not leave but stands and remains as true as rock or wood. So apart from the mossy gloom of the forest (like snow gathering on dark loam) that he must be so, and more than that, he is waiting for her. To respond. To yield to what he might think is natural and easy, but to her is odd and unwieldy, indeed.

But she puts her hoof down finally and chuffs back.

Her father would probably have preferred she get more used to this, to the companionship of another horse. Even to the natural ways of communication. He had tried, bringing her to the playground and hoping that she opened up. But he had raised a queer and quiet girl. He had let her nurse from deer and feed on the company of things that bark and gekker and sniff the air tirelessly. And from just himself. A family of two, happy...  but not; she does not recall that hall of light and darkness—in that strange and will-up dream world. 

Nor the second body, so tangled up in each other they were as intimate as any two can possibly get.

Or, of course, her expulsion from that place. That womb and that made-up utopia. Fortunate, it would make her ever so sad to know that her mother (she has one!—just one that stays in the places she makes for them, of castles and birds) had left her and kept that colourful other girl. Nyxia had not been the one that mimicked the one Heartworm had lost, and so she had been unlucky. Or, maybe lucky.
She loves her father and knows nothing of her loses.

“Hi,” it is softer than she meant it to be, so much so that she wonders if he could have possibly heard it. She clears her throat and tries again, “hello!” She shifts, through god rays and familiar shade, testing the air for scent. Glancing behind him, and around them, but they are alone. In the sense that they are surrounded by all her friends and yet she has been jilted and left to do this on her own.

She is old enough, but she would be lying if she said she did not feel a certain amount of annoyance at all her no-shows. Sometimes, it is as if she is suspended. Something in her still seeking that world away from theirs, and growing up means severing it one blade-drag across the cord at a time...

But she is here, and he is too. This thrillingly new stranger.

and I pray to blades of grass to find forgiveness in the weeds.