and i descend from grace, in arms of undertow; aurane

[Aurane]

She fits into shadows comfortably. Drawn close to the breast of the reflective blink of eyes and the sightless wink of stars, the red woman feels embraced. When still, it wraps around her like another layer of flesh, sleek around the edges and breathy. She does not feel particularly free nor invigorated by the darkness, her misplaced arrogance makes her equally as bold in the clear light as in the sunless muck. *****There is a certain eroticism about nighttime, though. A snug place, tucked away from prying eyes. Shamelessness in its reduced form — pure concentrate. *****But when she moves she flickers like a flame. Bright, red heat. She weaves past the skeletons of oaks and maples, their buds coming in, making their near-nakedness all the more obvious. They look cold and tortured to her, thin and pushing for death. She blinks, (the woods she moves within moan against the shackles of their cold and brutalized bark. Their whines are low and primordial. They twitch and shiver, great gaping, downturned mouths open to reveal broken and jagged dentition. Their eyes are dark scratches. Blinded by a million tiny claws scurrying up their faces.) She rushes from them, bursts forth like an errant ember to smolder in the open. There is nothing special to her about the stars. They have a soulless, distant quality. Carcasses, long since having imploded in on themselves. Their light is a haunting and unbearably old glow. She moves with a feline weightlessness, picking paths around the puddles of cold slush and stubborn snow. Stepping high, a contemptuous motion. The regal gait of an executioner queen, her dark eyes barely hiding a thirsty, chaotic glint. And they find her. (We always find something.) Another curiosity. She's been collecting them, a strange and eager discovered of freakishness. (Eyes. Quiet. Death. But who are you?) *****This one has subsumed herself to night. The red woman's lip twitch with interest. She is similarly distant. Similarly lonely. Aurane disturbs the night, moving to her casually. Every muscle in her body reaching for composure, her mouth struggling to learn a new position. A smile, untoward and soothing. But it spasms now and again, like an underworked muscle holding under immense demand. “Hel-lo,” But her greeting is predatory, spoiling the charade. What are you? it says, instead. She blinks, but this woman is real. (How do you know?) “What are you called, then?” Aurane. ****Death makes angels of us all, and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claw.