03-02-2018, 10:46 PM
haze like a fever
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
She is not like other children. Wishbone is independent already, racing off after some adventure or another. She enjoys the tune her mother sings when her legs are weary, but she is often too busy chasing seagulls or jumping off ledges to curl against Wound’s breast. She’s wild enough to give a quiet huff of frustration when her father’s nose prods and sniffs along the lines of her body, searching for danger.
One day she will miss the way he dove to catch her and poked to find injury.
Wishbone closes her amber eyes when his kiss touches her dainty nose. When he speaks, her eyelids slide open. She is caught in the dream of his story and the swirl of wind and sun that dances around them with the push of his wings. The breeze roars in her ears for a moment and she laughs recklessly.
“Does that mean I come from the stars too?” She would love to come from the stars under the context she takes away from her father’s statement. She can picture herself now, climbing down from the heavens on a mountain of constellations, glowing like a nighttime goddess. Whether physically or not, Wishbone is spun from the same material as the shooting stars — a quick flash of brilliant light blazing across the sky. She holds the courage and fire of all the blazing stars inside her young little body.
Her father’s wings are open for exploration and the girl is quick to jump at the opportunity. She sticks her sable muzzle against dark feathers. Her lungs deeply inhale the scents of sun and wind and smoke — the scents of home. The feathers are soft against her cheek and she runs her whole body along them gleefully like a cat purring against a sofa. “They’re so soft!”
One day she will miss the way he dove to catch her and poked to find injury.
Wishbone closes her amber eyes when his kiss touches her dainty nose. When he speaks, her eyelids slide open. She is caught in the dream of his story and the swirl of wind and sun that dances around them with the push of his wings. The breeze roars in her ears for a moment and she laughs recklessly.
“Does that mean I come from the stars too?” She would love to come from the stars under the context she takes away from her father’s statement. She can picture herself now, climbing down from the heavens on a mountain of constellations, glowing like a nighttime goddess. Whether physically or not, Wishbone is spun from the same material as the shooting stars — a quick flash of brilliant light blazing across the sky. She holds the courage and fire of all the blazing stars inside her young little body.
Her father’s wings are open for exploration and the girl is quick to jump at the opportunity. She sticks her sable muzzle against dark feathers. Her lungs deeply inhale the scents of sun and wind and smoke — the scents of home. The feathers are soft against her cheek and she runs her whole body along them gleefully like a cat purring against a sofa. “They’re so soft!”
@[Warrick]