03-10-2018, 11:44 PM
haze like a fever
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
Wishbone doesn’t know of the confusion she brings with her. She knows her parents are not necessarily in love (not in the way that they nestle together under the glow of stars or sleep with torsos and legs intertwined or murmur sweet nothings into one another’s ears) but there is a connection there, strong and sure. Wishbone does know of the constant of the ocean’s waves, the endless shifting of the seasons, the countless adventures and possibilities the world holds.
The mahogany girl also knows that the grass she snatches tastes a hint like brine and smoke. She isn’t sure if the added flavor is tasteful enough to continue eating, but Wishbone doesn’t have to decide when a voice calls her name. Her smooth face lifts from among the tall, shifting blades to see who had called her name. The voice wasn’t familiar, but Wishbone identifies the face from the most recent of Tephra’s meetings.
She had seen the way her father had looked at this mare before — a look which never flickered across his face with such severity when he looked at Wound. It strikes suspicion in the low of her belly even now, the expression glinting in the glow of her sunset eyes. Wishbone has never met the honey and ivory woman before, at least not officially. But apparently the stranger knows of her.
“You know my father well, don’t you?” She’s never really been a huge fan of beating around the bush. Despite the uncertainty in the shadows of her gaze, Wishbone’s face is relatively soft. The dying autumn sun flashes against her maturing curves and the auburn highlight of her dark, knotted mane. Standing in the tall grasses (which slightly sway from a faint breeze winding between the trees), patched with dirt and shining with twilight glow, she looks every bit a piece of Tephra as the volcano and beaches and lava streams themselves.
“What’s your name?”
The mahogany girl also knows that the grass she snatches tastes a hint like brine and smoke. She isn’t sure if the added flavor is tasteful enough to continue eating, but Wishbone doesn’t have to decide when a voice calls her name. Her smooth face lifts from among the tall, shifting blades to see who had called her name. The voice wasn’t familiar, but Wishbone identifies the face from the most recent of Tephra’s meetings.
She had seen the way her father had looked at this mare before — a look which never flickered across his face with such severity when he looked at Wound. It strikes suspicion in the low of her belly even now, the expression glinting in the glow of her sunset eyes. Wishbone has never met the honey and ivory woman before, at least not officially. But apparently the stranger knows of her.
“You know my father well, don’t you?” She’s never really been a huge fan of beating around the bush. Despite the uncertainty in the shadows of her gaze, Wishbone’s face is relatively soft. The dying autumn sun flashes against her maturing curves and the auburn highlight of her dark, knotted mane. Standing in the tall grasses (which slightly sway from a faint breeze winding between the trees), patched with dirt and shining with twilight glow, she looks every bit a piece of Tephra as the volcano and beaches and lava streams themselves.
“What’s your name?”
@[Tangerine]