04-20-2015, 12:51 AM
She is unremarkable in every way.
She is unremarkable in every way, but they are drawn to her anyways - as though in the fractures of her soul, as though in the trenches carved through her entire being, a gravitational pull exists against all logic or reason; her skin is golden, but she is no sun.
He comes; he orbits.
He wonders what they are, and where they have been. He wonders about the things that they have seen, and the things that they have said. He wonders about the shapes that they made with their mouths the nights they poured their insides out, but only she knows. Only they know. He wonders, but the answers are, perhaps, the only thing the world will never take away from them.
“She was never nothing,” she says, because he should know, because the world should know – because Spyndle is made of water, and she waivers, and she gives, and she would do or say anything in the world if it meant that she could curve around the contours of her body and destroy the space between their skin. “She will never be nothing.”
Not when she is everything.
‘I know her name,’ he says, but Spyndle knows her soul. She knows the sounds of her frantic heart thrumming against her chest, and how the sweat against her skin smells musky and sweet all at once. She knows what it feels like when they are one being, and the magic it can stir. She knows.
“My name belongs to her.”
She is unremarkable in every way, but they are drawn to her anyways - as though in the fractures of her soul, as though in the trenches carved through her entire being, a gravitational pull exists against all logic or reason; her skin is golden, but she is no sun.
He comes; he orbits.
He wonders what they are, and where they have been. He wonders about the things that they have seen, and the things that they have said. He wonders about the shapes that they made with their mouths the nights they poured their insides out, but only she knows. Only they know. He wonders, but the answers are, perhaps, the only thing the world will never take away from them.
“She was never nothing,” she says, because he should know, because the world should know – because Spyndle is made of water, and she waivers, and she gives, and she would do or say anything in the world if it meant that she could curve around the contours of her body and destroy the space between their skin. “She will never be nothing.”
Not when she is everything.
‘I know her name,’ he says, but Spyndle knows her soul. She knows the sounds of her frantic heart thrumming against her chest, and how the sweat against her skin smells musky and sweet all at once. She knows what it feels like when they are one being, and the magic it can stir. She knows.
“My name belongs to her.”