There was a birch tree in the field; Misra

[Misra]

Misra

i'd go to hell and back with you; stay lost in what we've found.

   Her heart was a wild one – captured quickly with thinly veiled deceit, and crushed easily beneath the weight of discontent. She was foolish, and gullible – her heart ached for what was just out of reach, for what she could never hold onto for more than a few short, breathless minutes. Time had taught her nothing, it seemed, and though she had once found the strength to pull herself out of the clutches of the one who had held so much power over her delicate emotions, she had been drawn back in by his allure, by his bittersweet promises, and once more she found herself thrown away – tossed aside.
 
   She had never meant anything to him, to the lavender painted object of her affection – a truth that was now every bit as part of her as the marrow of her bones or the blood in her veins. She had always known it (he loved no one but himself, and never had), but in the wake of everything she had known being stripped away from her, in the aftermath of the ground being reshaped and changed, she found herself desperately alone – and everything she had ever known was gone.
 
   Her loneliness had driven her to him once more, as his pale amethyst figure loomed in the shadow of night, and she had fallen for his lies yet again – but still, it was not him she longed for in the end.
 
   She is pressed against a brittle, fallen branch, scratching the dry twigs at her feathers where some semblance of an itch remains tucked between the preened feathers. Hidden away within the densest part of the thicket, she has grown used to the quiet, with little else but the soft chirping of other winged creatures, and the babbling brook nearby to keep her company. She is lost in her own thoughts, of memories with words unspoken (she had never had the strength to rebuke Kirin; she had never had the courage to tell Siberian how she felt), when the sharp crackling of dry leaves and twigs startle her from her reverie.
 
   And there, as her deep, brown eyes search his familiar face – the creases beneath his eyes (unfocused, almost cloudy – could he not see her?) deep and dark, and the familiar hollow of his cheek where she had once lain kisses. Misra? he murmurs, his voice shaking and quivering with uncertainty. Disbelief is etched across her feminine features, but it also tremors within her voice, which murmurs his name softly in return.
 
   ”Siberian, I .. it’s been so long – is it really you?” she says, finally, stepping forward as her silvery feathers bristle along the hollow bones of her wings. Gently, her whiskered lips touch his cheek, seeking his familiarity, longing for him to be anything but a dream. ”I thought ..” I thought you were dead, she doesn’t say, for her voice is shaking too much as it is.

worlds apart, we were the same until we hit the ground.

@[Siberian]