Halcyon Flats
06-19-2018, 05:28 PM
hold on to my HEARTBEAT —
You are lost, in the grace of the stranger, and the rhythm built between you. It shimmers like something almost tangible in the air, a beat that isn't your heart, a focus so keen it obliterates the sun and the sky and the earth and the sea. There's only him and you, and the predictions you make together.
It's a world within a world, a dream untethered.
You've never experienced anything like it, and you're not going to stop and question it—your consciousness is too deeply buried, lost in the pleasant ache of your shoulders as you move in a way you've never quite moved before, lost in the patterns drawn in the sand.
But all things must come to an end.
So tuned into his body are your senses that you see him stop before he does, and in the brief moment between prediction and reality, you feel a distant disappointment. Ah, that part of you thinks, and then he is standing still on the beach beneath you.
And your mind surges back to life. The whisper of the surf, the burning of the sun, the fiery ache along your spine and wings; you lock them in a glide, sweeping around the place he towers like a midnight sentinel, trying to figure out what has just happened. Part of you wants to analyze it, rerun it in your mind, brand it into your memory, so as to never forget it, but you can't help but worry it would ruin the magic.
Some things are better left unexplained.
He waves at you, but you've already lost altitude. Normally, you can stay in the air for hours upon hours, but normally, you don't ask of your body what you did today. Sweat rimes your flanks, nostrils flaring with each quick breath, and when you lightly touch down upon the sands, you feel wobbly and heavy.
You let your wings drop, just glad to let gravity take them for a moment.
And you raise your eyes, to look at him—and your jaws and tongue think about words to shape, but the only ones you find are wrong.
What happened to your voice?
(He can't answer you.)
Will you come back to Halyven?
(It was never about that.)
Why did you leave?
There were no answers to be had there, but you don't know any other way to ask. Curiously, you tilt your head to the side instead, the charms in your mane rattling against one another as your golden eyes try to ask the question your mouth can't.
Who are you?
It's a world within a world, a dream untethered.
You've never experienced anything like it, and you're not going to stop and question it—your consciousness is too deeply buried, lost in the pleasant ache of your shoulders as you move in a way you've never quite moved before, lost in the patterns drawn in the sand.
But all things must come to an end.
So tuned into his body are your senses that you see him stop before he does, and in the brief moment between prediction and reality, you feel a distant disappointment. Ah, that part of you thinks, and then he is standing still on the beach beneath you.
And your mind surges back to life. The whisper of the surf, the burning of the sun, the fiery ache along your spine and wings; you lock them in a glide, sweeping around the place he towers like a midnight sentinel, trying to figure out what has just happened. Part of you wants to analyze it, rerun it in your mind, brand it into your memory, so as to never forget it, but you can't help but worry it would ruin the magic.
Some things are better left unexplained.
He waves at you, but you've already lost altitude. Normally, you can stay in the air for hours upon hours, but normally, you don't ask of your body what you did today. Sweat rimes your flanks, nostrils flaring with each quick breath, and when you lightly touch down upon the sands, you feel wobbly and heavy.
You let your wings drop, just glad to let gravity take them for a moment.
And you raise your eyes, to look at him—and your jaws and tongue think about words to shape, but the only ones you find are wrong.
What happened to your voice?
(He can't answer you.)
Will you come back to Halyven?
(It was never about that.)
Why did you leave?
There were no answers to be had there, but you don't know any other way to ask. Curiously, you tilt your head to the side instead, the charms in your mane rattling against one another as your golden eyes try to ask the question your mouth can't.
Who are you?
you’re a dreamer and you don’t know
that no story’s carved in stone
