She pays little mind to the seasons, they bleed and change with no notice from her. Time, too, is a face on the water, a thing that stretches and warps around her.
(When did she last see her? A year ago? Five?)
She is aware, in the dulling light, of movement – a painted stallion moving through the meadow, his gait easy and smooth. She watches him and strengthens the lightning without really thinking. It’s natural now, like breathing. She cages herself so they
(He)
may not cage her.
For a moment she brightens when he is close enough to touch, the air sparked around her. She is a warning sign, neon and light. But the buzzing fades down, lets him speak – he seems harmless enough.
He asks what brings her here, as if she’s come for some grand purpose. None of her true answers could be spoken – I come here because I met her here, I come here because I lost her here – so she goes with another choice, a safer one.
“It’s my home,” she says, “as much as anything else, it’s my home.”
A pause. She considers leaving. But the loneliness of the night stretches before her like an ache, so instead she asks this of him:
“And what brings you here?”
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me