08-22-2020, 10:10 PM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
Time drags; something languid, like slow honey dripping. The space that has grown between them aches, like dust and bone. It’s a thrum in his throat, a calling in the distance between his spine; Sabbath, Sabbath, Sabbath. Something to keep holy and hold on to. Something he did not think would hold space between his teeth, but turned into a light that kept rewinding in his mind. There is a stuttering remembrance of something once holy.
It is not boredom that brings him (no, never a complacency, but a curiosity). He tastes her on his tongue, his skin crawls with the call of her. It is easy (almost, too most). Her scent is a thing to bathe in; the air sweats with it. Each of her breathes heaves a cloud of calling. There is nothing keeping them apart.
And so he goes .
‘Foolishness’ A word that comes to mind- something he should call it, but cannot bear to. For her to hide in the land that he has made with his own skin - it is a silly thing. For how could she ever know? How would she ever know that she is being hunted? For all of her jagged teeth and callous clashing of her teeth - she is none the wiser. He is something too far gone - something meaningless and forgotten, a wisp of whimsy.
But he will never (can never) rest. And so he comes.
”Sabbath” It is a request and a command curdled into one. He is asking, he is requiring. His throat raised to the bright sky, his blood singing a song to call you close. Come, come, little thing.
There is too much left unsaid.
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in
@[Sabbath]