dead beat {Pollock}

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray


Theirs is a strange weave.

But he is well acquainted with strange things. In the grand scheme of things, she mightn’t even be the strangest of them all. He could sit and let the mystery of their union scour his sanity – but he quite prides himself on keeping a level head. He could mull over her queer and tenuous grip on their world (or his world, her former – her prison and her vault of echoing memories), or the way she seems stuck between with only his company in that space.
He has other things to suck him down. His mind is a quagmire.

His dreams are fitful (she she would well know by now). Plagued by the slimy and evasive wisps of things bygone, or foretold, or maybe fictions clamped to his brain like mussels on wet rocks – disease and lesion. But then he remember waking up whole. The weight of his head, the split of his toes. Everything else that makes him what he is: a better version of that sad and impotent shade of himself. He remembers being weak and then mighty. The in between is the riddle – the endless labyrinth.

Dead ends.

He watches her hang by her corpse. The sight of it must taste like ash in her mouth. He hopes so. He imagines she cannot smell it, having been untethered from this plane of senses, but it is foul. Not as foul as it had been, and soon it will smell like nothing and then it will be nothing. 
He lets her have her peace as she lets him have his.

She is no longer meat and girth, but a whisper against the curve of his ear and neither wants to be soldered to the other. He sighs, stepping towards her, his eyes darting over the hang of black-brown flesh and the deadened areas around that will soon become lively off the feast of her breakdown. “I think it’s fine as it is.” He stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her, feels the cold place where he knows she is intangible – vaporous and faintly transparent. “Have you heard about your mate? Former mate, I apologize. Or does news not travel to the dead? I wonder if losing you was the cause of his truancy.” his voice almost doesn’t carry a derisive tone. 
He breathes, lets her ponder that and what it means (if his crown ever meant anything – his love probably meant more, but now neither of them get either of those things).

“He hasn’t come for me. When do you think he will, Hestia?”


POLLOCK
Lone Artist and Phina’s