10-18-2021, 08:17 PM
She is watching his face when it transforms from something quiet and beautiful to that masterpiece of constructed disappointment. He wears his sadness like a mirror to hers, and in the quiet familiarity she feels no reason not to trust all these cues he shares with her, all these beautiful lies that land in her eyes like broken truths. “I’m sorry.” She says, and she isn’t sure why her voice is a whisper except that maybe it hurts too much to be louder, hurts too much to take a breath so all he gets is this quiet exhale. “I don’t think I know you.”
He is beautiful, truly beautiful, and she is not immune to these greens and golds that remind her of the trees at the edges of the forest. She knows that she likes his face and those kind, worried eyes, knows that she wants him to be a shard of discarded memory now returned to her. But when she searches his face like she is searching for constellations in an unfamiliar sky, there is no sense of familiarity that binds her to him. Still, when he shifts like he might embrace her, there is a flaring of hope inside her chest that his embrace will feel like home, feel like safety, feel like the end of this creeping loneliness.
Instead it feels like falling when he holds himself back and away from her.
“It wouldn’t be terribly hard to know me better than I know myself.” She says again, and that red crystal face is something soft and unsure, framed by wide golden eyes and overly large pink flowers in her hair, a smile that seems out of place on her shy mouth. “I think my name is Flower, but I’m not even sure of that. Maybe I just really like flowers?” Her brow furrows and her golden eyes dim a shade darker with a moment of tumult and confusion. “Is that my name? Am I Flower?” Because he says he knows her and it is so easy to trust this beautiful, worried face.
Her heart is a string of beats that fall clean out of her chest when he reaches out and brushes his lips, brushes warmth, over the strange coolness of her cheek. There is almost a memory in that movement, almost a reflex to smile and lean closer, to tuck herself against his waiting chest. It makes her ache and unravel, makes this pain somehow more poignant because these are echoes instead of memories and she is still so entirely splintered apart.
“I remember..” But her voice trails off and her eyes close beneath a brow so heavily furrowed, so thoroughly unsure. She has to force her gaze to open again, force her eyes to his face and his neck and the curve of those massive wings above his shoulders.“Oh.” Her expression softens, her eyes filling with wonder as she steps forward to touch those glass lips to the nearest feathers - rich green and white below as if shielded by the gold above. “I remember your wings, I think.” But the memory feels wrong, feels slightly off somehow the longer she stares at them. Green and white? Or just white like snow, like bone, like a burning star. “I’m really not sure, I’m sorry. Were we,” a pause, eyes that return to his face again, “friends?”
He is beautiful, truly beautiful, and she is not immune to these greens and golds that remind her of the trees at the edges of the forest. She knows that she likes his face and those kind, worried eyes, knows that she wants him to be a shard of discarded memory now returned to her. But when she searches his face like she is searching for constellations in an unfamiliar sky, there is no sense of familiarity that binds her to him. Still, when he shifts like he might embrace her, there is a flaring of hope inside her chest that his embrace will feel like home, feel like safety, feel like the end of this creeping loneliness.
Instead it feels like falling when he holds himself back and away from her.
“It wouldn’t be terribly hard to know me better than I know myself.” She says again, and that red crystal face is something soft and unsure, framed by wide golden eyes and overly large pink flowers in her hair, a smile that seems out of place on her shy mouth. “I think my name is Flower, but I’m not even sure of that. Maybe I just really like flowers?” Her brow furrows and her golden eyes dim a shade darker with a moment of tumult and confusion. “Is that my name? Am I Flower?” Because he says he knows her and it is so easy to trust this beautiful, worried face.
Her heart is a string of beats that fall clean out of her chest when he reaches out and brushes his lips, brushes warmth, over the strange coolness of her cheek. There is almost a memory in that movement, almost a reflex to smile and lean closer, to tuck herself against his waiting chest. It makes her ache and unravel, makes this pain somehow more poignant because these are echoes instead of memories and she is still so entirely splintered apart.
“I remember..” But her voice trails off and her eyes close beneath a brow so heavily furrowed, so thoroughly unsure. She has to force her gaze to open again, force her eyes to his face and his neck and the curve of those massive wings above his shoulders.“Oh.” Her expression softens, her eyes filling with wonder as she steps forward to touch those glass lips to the nearest feathers - rich green and white below as if shielded by the gold above. “I remember your wings, I think.” But the memory feels wrong, feels slightly off somehow the longer she stares at them. Green and white? Or just white like snow, like bone, like a burning star. “I’m really not sure, I’m sorry. Were we,” a pause, eyes that return to his face again, “friends?”
FLOWER
i'm only steady on my knees
@Molech