the heaviness in my heart belongs to gravity; kensley

[larke]

carried by the current of the morning
miles below the surface of the dawn

There is so much of her that wants to be able to understand that kind of depth.

To know what lives behind her mother’s eyes and the currents that tug beneath the gentleness and the sweet way that she still presses kisses to her forehead like she is a small child. To know what makes her father as twisted around his pain; to know the kind of guilt that drives him to be as good as he is now.

But she has no such understanding.

She has no way of knowing the way it can pull you under.

Still, her heart bleeds at the look of gravity around him and she struggles to try and discern the ache in her chest that spreads with each moment. “Kensley,” she repeats quietly, committing the name to memory. It has a weight to it that feels like a stone on her tongue, and she has to wonder at what made it such.

For a moment, there is nothing but silence between them—and she hears the wind more than she feels it, the pull of it as it winds around her and threads between her legs. She can feel the healing unspool in her chest, threatening to reach for him and sink into his bones but she holds it in check. For now, at least.

“What brings you to the meadow today, Kensley?”

Her head tips again and she watches him, wishing desperately she had something more interesting to say.

this is not the place that I was born in
but it doesn't mean it's not the place where I belong

larke