lay my body down
Time is meaningless to their ilk.
The particles and dust that have formed Hickory and Loam have outstayed the ravages of time. What are seconds and minutes that tick by into endless hours thrust upon days that become months then years? A century could go by and somehow, the particles and dust that are Hickory and Loam will still find one another. The stars and some unknown god’s hand have seen to that. It is how they keep finding one another, in and out of time, like birds that come home to the ancestral roost of the heart.
It’s just there - inside each of them.
Their hearts are compasses that point their feet towards each other no matter the distance that has come between them. Loam knows that she could find Hickory in her dreams, full of trees and flowers, full of that beautiful brown face beneath all that black hair. Never has a bay mare looked so common in her dress but also never more beautiful than how Hickory looks when Loam sweeps her emerald gaze over her, ravenous for more. Skin as brown as a nut, hair as black as a raven’s feather, and she can feel a hunger build in her that requires no grass to sate it but one single taste of that mare’s flesh.
Neither of them should be allowed to love.
Bloodlines or lack thereof just do not allow it but here they are, together again. Always, and always.
Dark green eyes flick over the brown flesh, not missing for one instant the shiver that possesses it. A sentence begins but ends in an abrupt fashion that has Loam tilting her small head to one side as her tongue darts out to lick her lips. She holds her breath now, as Hickory talks and steps closer - close enough to brush her muzzle against Loam’s skin and now it is Loam who is prone to shivering which she never thought was possible. Even the cold is not enough to make her shiver and shake like an aspen in the wind but god, Hickory’s touch is her undoing!
“I missed you.” she croons to this woodland sprite that has haunted her life and her dreams and most of all, her heart. It is a murmur she tucks into the thick black hair that tumbles down the neck in a riot of messy windblown curls, as she breathes in Hickory’s intoxicating smell. Loam could get drunk of that smell, high as a kite in a bright blue sky even. She could forget that there is a world outside the press of their two skins together, and for a long moment, she does just that - she forgets and buries her black face in that black hair until Loam is momentarily indistinguishable from Hickory.
Loam