moth dreams
She finds him in her own sleep sometimes, drawn by the rich smells of earth and the light allure of nectar and perfume. Maybe it's not right to say it's his flame that draws her, but it is, the sparks of copper in his hair, embers of freckles across his face, the blaze of green in his eyes. She loses the affectations of a woman in her dreams, is all wings and fuzz and fascination, wheeling low looping circles around him, dusting moonlight over pale skin.
Sleepy, forgetful little thing, and every flutter of patterned wings laughs their pleasure and affection. Two little things in the black, Sometimes, in her dreams, he holds out a hand and she lights there and he smiles at her, carries her on through the abyss and she flutters and shifts, little feet dancing over skin as she navigates the way to the stars for him
Sometimes she nestles in his hair and he sits and listens to the soft chirruping songs of silverlight that so few creatures of the earth ever get to hear. But then, he is not just earth sometimes, he can be water and sky, mountains and trees and she forgets that. Forgets until he's cast his shadow over her and she knows she's too inconsequential for his possessor to really bother begrudging her brazenness.
Sometimes, in her dreams, as she's lilting through the black, he pays her no mind at all. Turns and wanders aimlessly, mournfully, and she follows along after, voice too small to stop him. She follows until her wings ache, and without him to carry her, she descends, watches him disappear and soon forgets he was ever there.
She's used to feeling small, used to being brushed from shoulders, overlooked. Used to too those who see her delicateness and covet it, obsess over what her markings mean, what the playful curves of her lips signify. They capture her, tiny little thing, until she flies free of them again, slips through the cracks because she is so small.
She would not miss their attention. Once it had been worshipers, but all the worshipers are gone and even then she had only been a steward to the moon, cared for only by proxy. The irony is not always lost on her and she sees similarities in her patterns and his freckles. Sometimes, when he curls up and cradles her in the palms of his hands, he is very small too.
Sometimes, when she dreams, he isn't there at all, there's just the dark spaces in between the stars and she dances there by herself, elated with the feeling of air under her wings, dizzy with her own twirls, with her own songs written to the pulse of her own blood. And slowly, as she tires herself with it, sinking to rest upon the ground, she wonders where the strong boy who smells of flowers has gone.
What crack has he slipped through. And will he come back again?
When she watches the sunset, she never thinks whether it will rise again. Irrelevant, really, so long as joy is had in its sinking jubilation. (But will he be back again? Will he let me rest on his shoulders again?)
She wakes blearily at midday, aware of the ache in her shoulder blades, of the way her breath sticks in the dip of her throat, and she stares at the white ceiling washed with sunlight.
Sleepy, forgetful little thing, and every flutter of patterned wings laughs their pleasure and affection. Two little things in the black, Sometimes, in her dreams, he holds out a hand and she lights there and he smiles at her, carries her on through the abyss and she flutters and shifts, little feet dancing over skin as she navigates the way to the stars for him
Sometimes she nestles in his hair and he sits and listens to the soft chirruping songs of silverlight that so few creatures of the earth ever get to hear. But then, he is not just earth sometimes, he can be water and sky, mountains and trees and she forgets that. Forgets until he's cast his shadow over her and she knows she's too inconsequential for his possessor to really bother begrudging her brazenness.
Sometimes, in her dreams, as she's lilting through the black, he pays her no mind at all. Turns and wanders aimlessly, mournfully, and she follows along after, voice too small to stop him. She follows until her wings ache, and without him to carry her, she descends, watches him disappear and soon forgets he was ever there.
She's used to feeling small, used to being brushed from shoulders, overlooked. Used to too those who see her delicateness and covet it, obsess over what her markings mean, what the playful curves of her lips signify. They capture her, tiny little thing, until she flies free of them again, slips through the cracks because she is so small.
She would not miss their attention. Once it had been worshipers, but all the worshipers are gone and even then she had only been a steward to the moon, cared for only by proxy. The irony is not always lost on her and she sees similarities in her patterns and his freckles. Sometimes, when he curls up and cradles her in the palms of his hands, he is very small too.
Sometimes, when she dreams, he isn't there at all, there's just the dark spaces in between the stars and she dances there by herself, elated with the feeling of air under her wings, dizzy with her own twirls, with her own songs written to the pulse of her own blood. And slowly, as she tires herself with it, sinking to rest upon the ground, she wonders where the strong boy who smells of flowers has gone.
What crack has he slipped through. And will he come back again?
When she watches the sunset, she never thinks whether it will rise again. Irrelevant, really, so long as joy is had in its sinking jubilation. (But will he be back again? Will he let me rest on his shoulders again?)
She wakes blearily at midday, aware of the ache in her shoulder blades, of the way her breath sticks in the dip of her throat, and she stares at the white ceiling washed with sunlight.