king of the neon lights
_{wore the crown on friday nights}

The beach is just another place, knowledge of its existence tucked away behind vast piles of far more useful things— forgotten among a sea (ha) of more relevant, more necessary information. It was a little chunk of Helovia my grey hooves had touched on only once, back when I was still gangly limbed and all for the fun and thrill of escaping Mother. Back when Sabre was still sheltered beneath the forest canopy, when our hooves thundered in unison and our contagious laughter fell into a sweet harmony. Where was she now?

The question plagued me, haunted my thoughts consistently, always coming back— when will the answer come to me? For weeks now (weeks? Months?) I've been unable to run from the harsh reality of solitude, the creeping shadow of loneliness that no amount of hiding can deter. It's upon me now, giving way to the all too real understanding of my solidarity, that I am a lone king trapped in his own castle. Maybe that's what I'm fated to be, a forgotten piece to an extensive family (no, I'll be something greater)— a temporary name clinging desperately to the minds of others.

I've come here to reflect (don't we all?), perhaps subconsciously hoping that Sabre is out within the tide, the pain of our brutal childhood washed away by the salty waves. All that I find is drying seaweed and despair among sea life washed ashore, decaying carcasses of hopeless fish scattered beside drift wood and discarded treasure. There was nothing here for me, nothing to keep me from turning my back on the edge of Helovia and wandering back inland where I have more of a chance of stumbling upon something. With my crowned head hung in defeat, the unbound laughter catches me— so blissful and open, childish in the way it easily escapes the throat. With curious bubblegum drifting to the blue body that skips over the sand, my ears reach forward to catch the sweet sounds of happiness (where is mine?).

The regal figure slips over the surface, hooves hovering over the unknown depths as the horned skull angles to view the life beneath him. Young eyes watch closely, careful to witness the way the water does not try to swallow the unicorn, the way it lets him pass over its surface with refined practice. I should be in awe at the way he does not sink beneath the waves, does not get swallowed up by the darkness of the ocean (it's so open)— but my excitement over the discovery of someone else's magic has been forgotten, cut away and deemed unnecessary (her royal bitchiness is was the only exception).

"You can walk on water," I note, focused on the cloven hooves and the way they kiss the blue surface. What else am I to say to the blue eyed boy? Nothing more came to mind, lips sealed as he stood upon the tide and I simply watched from the shoreline, letting the water kiss at my ankles.
"talk talk talk"