03-21-2018, 10:51 AM
Love is a compassionate cataclysm. A spring-river flooding her structure until its buoyant waters seep through her every pore.
In its wake - she is Muse; she is creativity and longing, the whispers of innocence and the constant clamor of invention; she is Beauty; soundless and sightless, sunlight dappled upon features carved of stardust; and she is Sea; distant and yet so near, with saline fingertips toying in the locks of hair which fall at her own shoulders – paradigm and prototype, dream-spun and free, she is Saedís: without past recorded, without future known. And she stands, spawned of the very stars which cling so to her skin; she stands, daughter of moon-rise in the distance; she stands, silent with stars in her eyes and intrigue upon her tongue: my puzzle without pieces, my equation without sign… she stands, and that is all. She stands.
She stands before Sleaze with a vibrant intensity in her eyes; it is not mere curiosity, nor searching – it is something older, something deeper, something which lies curled in her breast and her mind until woken;
”Sleaze” she echoes; with a strange sort of deja-vú – but she smiles, oh she smiles – for what else is there to do when your lover is named Garbage? And still, there is something there among the bright-sounding words, the lilting inflection, the unaccented syllables of her voice. ”What a peculiar name.” she means not to hurt his feelings – but she is a curious thing, and so she must ask. Saedís is no more and no less than otherworldly, with moonlight at her back and sunlight at her head; and she practically emanates warmth and friendliness.
”Do not apologize – I am an appreciator of midnight conversations.” she laughs – chimes on the wind.
A fluttering moth to the flame.