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i light the fire and see the blossom dance on air alone; i will not douse that flame, that searing flower; i will burn in it.
The sound of my voice surprises the world, a croaking tremble too weary to be healthy, how I might imagine a ghost to sound. Cool mist slips from lips as though my words have become an apparition. I fear what I look like trapped in the exposure of the moon -- still caked in river mud from a year ago or bleached to bones in the waning rays -- neither acceptable in the presence of another. But the idea of another is too ambiguous for this reality. I've shared the year submerged beneath waters that are silver still, stagnant, probably too tainted to survive a swallow. It's a miracle that this petaled heart has only rusted at dry tips, it's a miracle that it still grows red deep in the folds. Yes, the heart has layers.
I stagger down this acute valley, so lost in the perplexed folds of myself that I almost don't hear the ripple of another voice. It answers late and the silver waters of disillusion part enough to hear the rush of warmth from her sound. My eyes dance to the horizon, wary, but seek a promise of fervor. Confusion is a bubbly thing and I inwardly chuckle when my gaze narrows to hers. She emerges with subfuscous colors and the murk of night cloaks her safely, but something white and low crouches with tenacity, with caution. The moon catches white hair in an instant, and like fire, creates ash. The wolf, outlined so indistinctly, seems to waver. I hesitate, knowing the danger of such a thing and breathe out into the air again. But the girl continues on as though this animal is a friend. Bizarre. I dare not question.
But she answers as the moon does, late and illuminated. "I’m Essetia and this is Romul,"
Too withered to think, I just spill the first thing in my head; she must somehow notice the deadly fatigue reaping over my skeleton. "It's wonderful to know he's not the kind that kills." I shift my weight toward her, offer a friendly smile that is far gone in my eyes to a place of ache and lassitude. A cough shakes through the bones and I realize how old I must have become over this starving year. With each passing moment, the world continues to work a lull over my body. I fear how much I've spent, and wonder how one day as small as this can break a year of unrest. "Essetia, is this place safe for sleep?" I figure the moon is a faithful watch guard, but the presence of danger is always dense as the shadows.
"I'm not sure how much more these legs can take."
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i am nothing, i do not even have ashes to rub into my eyes
