the rocks might melt; the sea may burn. || circinae

[Canaan]

well, the good ol' days may not return,
and the rocks might melt, and the sea may burn.

  Her breath hovers along the feathered bone of his wing, just before her parted lips travel along its length, tasting the remnants of sunlight from the dark feathers. The golden flecks of his hazel eyes glimmer beneath the pale moonlight, the pupils tucked within following the gentle curve of her cheek and the unkempt midnight tresses that lay across her temple. His heart is light, its rhythmic beating echoing inside of his chest, and it reminds him of soaring along the coastline, of tasting the salty ocean breeze, of feeling the revitalizing caress of precipitation in the air. The pallid line of his blunt teeth is drawn back with another lazy grin, and the tension lingering in the atmosphere is palpable – there is nothing but the sound of their soft breaths, and the gentle rustling of dry, brittle leaves wavering overhead to envelope them.

  Again, a gust of wind urges against the solidity of their bodies, though in a wholly unnatural way – rather than surging in a single direction, it envelopes them from each side, pressing them together. His lopsided smile becomes a wry smirk, amused at his own cleverness. For a long moment, time seemingly stands still – captured in the vivid light of her icy stare and encapsulated in the way her words are carried in the warm, humid air. Her explanation causes his smile to soon falter, though he is still transfixed on her, studying the way the darkened line of her lips part and form each word of her vague response. She is an enigma; an intricate puzzle in which to piece together – and undeniably, he wonders what it would be like to see completion.

  Quietly, ”I am sorry you have had to lose anyone at all.” He watches as the light in her eyes seems to flicker and grow faint; the glee and mischievousness fading away. A once forgotten memory seems to befall her then, taking her away from the moment, though he himself clutches it close, tilting the broadness of his cheek to pull her vision to him again. "Though I may be the one with wings, you seem freer than I, Circinae." The preened feathers that line the hollow bones of his wings bristle beneath her stare, longing to stretch out, yearning for exposure. Soon, the flattened bridge of her nose presses against his muscled shoulder, and he, too, observes the stark, complementary contrast of their colors, blending together smoothly beneath the silvery light of the moon.

  ”Anytime,” he murmurs, his voice lowering just above a whisper, his dark lips brushing against her neck. There is something dangerous here, something he does not understand – an instinct he cannot ignore, but he brushes it to the side, quieting it within his mind. ”I could take you now. I think you would like what you see.”

Canaan