The Songbird could not be moved by heaven or earth, bound to the scorching airs searing into her mind; a warped, drowning haze full of beguiling, spellbinding, bewitching things. She wasn’t entirely certain of what possessed and seized her, but it contorted, curled, and coiled so readily, so immensely, that all she saw was him, breathing in his essence, his presence, his tangible wake. Imogen had long since disappeared, just an idle hum in the back of her mind while everything else seemed to buzz, electric and simmering, ardent, fervid, intense, and reeling. Drawn and drawn again, a moth to flame, sketched along the borders of crimson and gold, funneling beneath the strength of his touch, trembling, shuddering, awakening at the caress of his maw; suddenly much less the seraph, more of the nymph, the dryad, springing from the elements, caught in the confines of apertures and phantoms, thieves and menders. Incensed, craving the arch of the same sensations again and again, she leaned back into his caress, blushed under his kiss, and became intoxicated on the silence, on the restlessness, on the unspoken vows and oaths between them. Her heartbeat wove a mighty crescendo, an orchestra, as symphony, of musings and love and torment, pushing her chest into his, maneuvering her lips across his jaw, down his shoulder, and then mingling further down his body. She molded, carved, lines of honey and sienna along the outskirts of his cardinal skin; taking her time on the outline, memorizing the plains, the artwork, the oeuvre, the master canvas of a man she’d always cherished, always loved, always revered. Her mouth met his spine in a delicate, light, airy touch, a soft, dulcet finery, butterfly wings and dove tails, before moving slowly down the length of his ribs, his flank, his hind, smiling at the cords of strength, at the undulating muscles, at the toil of savage pulses; bestowed a caress at the base of his withers for every time he’d saved her (for deliverance, for liberation, for listening when she’d been a fool, for coaxing her away from guilt and circumstance, for all the unspoken, unsaid nuances, for dancing beneath the glow of the moon and for chasing down her ghosts). Lena could’ve spent a lifetime tending to the perfection of his shape and sculpture, paid worship in lilting song and hymns, proffered ambrosia and otherworldly enchantments, incantations – but he did the same to her and it was glorious, illustrious, and she couldn’t do anything else for a few moments but laugh, dreamy, mystic hallelujahs slipping past her throat, a ruffian rhapsody edging on the tipping point of no returns.
 
Her eyes lifted to his again, after he’d spoken and it barely buzzed around her crown (she suddenly felt slow, listless, languid, while her body seemed to respond on its own accord, outlining herself impossibly closer to him, pressed and slanted, glades of the forest, shards of the sunset) – what had they been talking about again? She could’ve sworn Imogen rolled her eyes in the distance, wherever she’d gone, hope swimming about her mind like an amber sonnet, and she grinned again, silly, whimsical, capricious in the vague, enigmatic quandaries spouting along her frame. She could feel the wanton fabrics and veils pulling along her again; vital and piercing, and the fanciful, nearly coy smile crept into her eyes, where it glowed and varnished, where it begged for something she couldn’t name, heart fluttering, beatific. “What do you hope for now?” The question spilled from her lips, across her tongue, before she could think about its escape, its departure, its heady assurances and desires tucked into the serene sway. The Songbird had been built on aspirations, dreams, and ambitions, when she’d been pushed down into a bed of wildflowers and told to die, when she’d bent rapture and reverie from the shadows, when she’d drank and absorbed and swallowed the sins of her brethren so they could heal, so they could thrive, and all she wanted, all she craved, all she yearned for was a piece of that now. Lush, ethereal, and breathless, she tipped her mouth down the length of his figure again, not waiting for the answer, sinuous and serpentine, graceful and poised, courting embers and cadence, illuminated, unwilling to be cast aside once more.