dark side of the moon; antonia

[Antonia]

Few thousand miles and an ocean away,
but I see the sunrise, just like the other day.

  The humidity is absent beneath the early morning sun, and as its bleak rays of light gently bathe her skin in its warmth, she is calm – much calmer than the churning, roaring sea that lay before her, as her dark eyes watch the waves break against the jagged rocks that line the shore. Her heartbeat is low and mellow, pounding rhythmically against the enclosure of her rib cage – of hardened cartilage that too often protrudes from her skin, that too often bends to her subconscious will. Yet now, as she is lost in the gentle tempo of the tempestuous sea, she is pristine, flawless – and without the protrusion of sharpened bone, which emerges from her dark flesh at the slightest disturbance.

  She cannot control it yet, her bone-bending – it is as much a part of her as the blood in her veins, and so it seamlessly interlaces itself with her temperament – splitting into long, whetted spikes when irate; twisting and reshaping her slim, feminine figure into one of bulk and stature when frightened. She does not control it; she cannot control it, and though her mother is loath to admit it, she is more entwined with her superfluous magic than she.

  Alas, her mother is not here – but rather, somewhere else, tucked deep within the belly of the volcanic island, and she is alone, precariously close to the precipice upon which her four (still too awkward, still too lanky) legs stand. The gentle breeze presses against her skin, and the faint mist of the crashing ocean dampens her dark, russet pelt, leaving droplets of dew entangled with her pale flaxen tresses. The salty brine of the sea obscures the ever-prevalent stench of sulfur from her, and she is at rest – forgetting about the rumbling, looming volcanic presence looming in the distance behind her.

  Her silent reverie is soon interrupted by a flicker of motion near the waters’ edge, and carefully, her dark and curious gaze is settled upon the two-toned figure of alabaster and bronze. He is terse and taut, the coiled muscle beneath tight with tension – and she is intrigued. It takes a moment of careful deliberation and thought to assess her descent from her rather high, unusual perch, but after a short time of careful and precise maneuvering of her body, she is once again aligned with the sea, and sinking slightly into dampened, impacted sand.

  Quietly, she moves closer as the tide comes to and fro, its warm waters enveloping her ankles before seeping back out to sea. Her cheek is tilted, with her tangled tresses hanging over the right side of her neck, dangling closer to the sand as she says, ”Maybe I’m wrong, but you look like maybe you could use a little company.”

Antonia