[open] wednesday my empty arms were open

[Kensa]

for every tyrant, a tear for the vulnerable
in every lost soul, the bones of a miracle

Kensa smiles, turns into the kindness that Clayton offers, a gentle touch on her cheek that warms her and frays the threads of her melancholy. He had known what she meant and a joy flashes over his face as he recalls those simpler times. Foolish times. To his touch her physical reaction is instinctual, her muzzle running along his until they are cheek to cheek. Her dark lashes flutter down, the intensity that brought her out of Hyaline flaring again. “I’m sure you’re right.” The words are said on an exhale, he wants to comfort her and she wants to return the kindness. There is a simple goodness in his touch that feels more familiar than it should. She doesn’t believe everyone will return to Hyaline, something feels altered, broken by the plague. Whatever might be built up in its place is foreign to her, a long way off. Where once there was only home, now there is the East, the council, a vast unknown and unpredictable life waiting for her.

She just needs a minute in the forest, a moment to steal in order to settle her mind.

“Your turn, Clayton. Why are you really here?” She doesn’t have to speak above a whisper, she hasn’t drawn her muzzle away from his, only shifted a little so that they can lean shoulder against shoulder. Light dapples their dark coats with silver dollars of sun and the sound of their quiet breathing is accompanied by forest rustlings and the chitterings of unseen birds.

kensa

for every dreamer, a dream. we're unstoppable with something to believe in.

@[Clayton]