the heaviness in my heart belongs to gravity; kensley

[kensley]

i took the poison praying you'd feel it, too i wrapped my neck and prayed that you'd feel the noose The old Beqanna, she says and it puts a sharp twinge in the center of his chest. He drags in a shuddering breath and nods. She is young, he realizes. And it shouldn’t matter, but it does. He should thank her for her apology and her impulse to share with him her name and go on his way. But he is tired. Certainly too tired to take his leave, so he stands there and listens to her instead. The Chamber and the Gates and the Valley. The Tundra and the Amazons. It makes him ache and he swallows the urge to fill in the blanks for her. He feels no overwhelming need to draw any attention to his age. He feels ancient. And tired. And timeless, too, which he hates most of all. “Times were different then,” he says for no reason in particular except that the silence felt thick and uncomfortable. He clears his throat and redirects his gaze. He does not know how different things are now except that the land has taken different shapes. He wonders why but wouldn’t know who to ask. She offers up her own answer and he nods again. He should ask her something else, prolong the conversation. But he is tired and he doesn’t know what to say. He can feel the weight in his chest begin to slant and he braces himself against it as he drags his focus back to her face. “This was always a good place for clearing your head,” he muses, quiet. shattered son of jarris and plumeria