whatever it takes to drown out the noise, dove

[rembrandt]

you and i nursing on a poison that never stung our teeth and lungs are lined with the scum of it It is charming, he thinks. That she startles when he speaks. That she’d been so thoroughly engrossed in her staring up at the sky that she hadn’t even registered his approach. He could apologize, he knows, but he doesn’t. He has never been inherently apologetic, even when he knows he’s at fault. It is not an inability to take responsibility for his actions, really, more of an inability to acknowledge that his actions have consequences. He has perhaps never stopped to really consider all the ways the things he does affects others. So, when he speaks and she jumps, he only smiles. She looks from the sky to him and he feels a sudden sense of mourning. Not because he has startled her, undoubtedly spiked her pulse, but because he has stolen her attention away from the sky. It is unclear whether he is mourning for her or for the sky. He had been teasing, of course, though he knows that there are those capable of bending the elements to their will. He calls no attention to it, just fashions up that same slanted smile and nods. He shifts his focus then to the constellations and how vividly they glow. He thinks of the astral markings on his own sides, wonders if they’re connected in some way but doesn’t ask. “Dove,” he says, holds it like a marble on the surface of his tongue, goes on smiling that same placid smile. “I’m Rembrandt.” He turns then, angles his body so that he is standing parallel to her. He tips back his head and peers up at the sky, mirroring the pose he’d found her in. “Do you think it will ever stop snowing?” he asks, quiet. He does not ask in the hopes that she will say yes, really. He cannot imagine someone with snowflakes branded on their velvet skin does not feel some spiritual connection tot he snow. In asking it, he is inviting himself to stay. stardusted son of despair and astral