02-05-2016, 02:44 AM
is crowded w/ lovers & searchers
& leavers so eager to please & forget.
If they could put each other back together, make wholes from scattered parts like jigsaws, he would be grateful.
It’s not what he expects. He’s not sure what to expect, but that seems a heavy hope to have; he’s trying to fish for answers down dark holes, but when one is afraid of what might be uncovered, it becomes less about being sewn back up, and more about being made anew from different material.
That’s what he expects.
While she yearns for what she has had and now does not, he’s searching stranger faces and crooks in the earth for ways to keep himself afloat. Trying with brute forced, bared naked, to demolish the dynasty of malevolence that winds around him like an old, rusty framework; he is trying to build something.
When she wonders on his darkness he tucks his chin into his chest, exhaling slowly. He does not like to be read. He is master of himself – he keeps rigid control, drilled to the bone. When he lets slip, he is often advised, unwittingly – as she has done. A favour, really. He can learn from it.
He would tell her that her yellow forelock (like sun or spring) stirs the sediment – not her fault, but all the same, it does. That he is trying, but beauty is bathed in salt water and sticky sand, and maybe always will be for him.
Somehow, she still ruins like a storm, his mother.
Maybe one day he can tell her all this.
But maybe it’s his own to keep and then purge.
“Until you can, then,” he keeps a cool eye, clearing his throat. There has always been a confidence in that tight and deep blue, if he wants there to be. “You would be surprised.” She has offered enough already, however unsettling. “You can stay only as long as you want, of course. Maybe until you can go ‘home’,” wherever that is, “it’s a better option than this, at least. Even if it isn’t the best.” She has not seen it, of course. It smells of salt spray, much like the Beach, but with the saccharinity of wildflowers instead of the cloy of decomposition. It is bright and woozy in the way it towers over the crash of waves and sparkles. It is better than here.
“Chessur,” he smiles, shrugging his shoulders a bit, “of Gemstone Ridge, I suppose.” He’s never been Chessur of anywhere.
Trashlip and Phina's
BASE BY BRONZEHALO