the heaviness in my heart belongs to gravity; kensley

[kensley]

i took the poison praying you'd feel it, too i wrapped my neck and prayed that you'd feel the noose She repeats his name and it makes him feel somehow even less deserving of it. He wants to shake his head and tell her that he was wrong. He was Kensley once, but he’s not anymore. But in doing so, he would have to give her something else to call him. Shattered, maybe. Failure. Traitor. But he merely smiles, a cold and joyless thing as he nods. For the moment, he can pretend that he is still Kensley. Good and decent and kind. He knows that he should fill the silence but he is tired. He is tired and heavy and he has gone so terribly astray that he wouldn’t know where to start. He could ask where she’s from but her answer would mean absolutely nothing to him. He does not know this world as inherently as he had known the Beqanna that had been his home. He knows that the meadow is more or less the same, though, and he supposes that is all that matters. He considers her question, casts a glance toward the horizon and rolls his shoulders. “I’ve been away a long time,” he says, “and this is the only place I recognize.” It’s an easy thing to admit. “What about you?” shattered son of jarris and plumeria