[open] oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any

[irisa]

and the walls kept tumbling down
in this city that we love

She is intrigued by him.
She is intrigued by everything, to be honest, that same whimsy giving her a curiosity that’s lingered still. She is intrigued by the look in his eye, faraway and somehow steely, by his tone; the whole windblown look of them. She feels strange in comparison, white and rainbow-sheened, entirely too cultivated, even if that cultivation took place in a dream world.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, smiling, unfazed by his terseness.

She steps closer – only a bit, and cocks her head, examining his wings. They’re different than hers, clearly, and she is captivated by the shape of them, the shimmer she sees where they briefly become something else.
“I like your wings,” she says, and her own move, as if to emphasize the word, “do they change?”
She’s seen such things, wings melting into one thing or another. She loves her own wings well enough, but she thinks it might be lovely to change them every so often, when the mood struck.
She extends her wings, then, brushing the feathers against his wings. It’s too much, perhaps, overstepping boundaries, but she is so curious. Of course, the feathers do not transmit much in the way of sensation, only that there is a thing there, but any part of her skin would have surely been too strange and intimate for this stranger.
“Sorry,” she says, withdrawing them, “I don’t always think before doing things.”

Irisa

tarnished x heartworm