My only friend was the man in the moon.

Eira... Remnant fear, swollen crimson vessels, hairline cracks in already brittle composure, lingered on in the whites of otherwise enigmatic, murky-blue eyes; these traced the line of the pastier coloured stranger’s quiet smile, concealing the stew of uncertainty beneath. Cupped, downy ears, flicked forward, honing in on the words and soft voice that slipped by darker, sooty lips, and though a feeble smile touched her own harrowed expression in answer, weakly, for fear fought the peaceable gesture fiercely, her thoughts revealed a rather contradictory sentiment. “It follows me!” thoughts divulged fretfully, whether or not her calmer company cared or wished to know, and worried tears were welling above the lashed pools beneath her widened gaze. For many months her skin had crawled beneath the effect of static flow, a curse, unfortunately, the only constant in a world of massive insecurity - there had been a rash too, burning and itchy, but the Rift had reclaimed it in exchange for three tasks. This affliction lingered on, however, and Eira hadn’t been able to figure out the cure. Intermittent volts of lightning struck regularly, aiming their vibrant energy towards the same numb, burning limb - and it wasn’t a sensation her impressionable heart had grown accustomed to. …the other’s interest seemed vague though. The waif’s bewildered gaze slackened, momentarily distracted, following the path of the older mare’s focus into the foliage yonder. Though she was keenly perceptive and rather adored nature, she failed to find the source of interest. “What is it?” her gentle mind wondered aloud, prying the other curiously for elucidation; all the while, she stared intently into the shadow-shrouded wilderness. "I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter."

- Pablo Neruda, Winter Garden

Your writing is so beautiful ;___;