Halcyon Flats
04-22-2018, 11:30 AM
hold on to my HEARTBEAT —
He flies without wings.
You have no other words for it, this awful, awful elegance, beautiful in a way that hurts to look at. He ripples under the sun, a mirage, a dream—your mind insists that he cannot be real. A liquid shadow when seen from a distance.
But his sweat smells all too real, and the prints he leave behind tell the story of a body meeting the ground; but how is it possible, when he seems so weightless? He sprints across the packed sand below, each stride eating up miles, lasting for eons, and you're not sure why watching him—a bird in flight—is so complex for you. His silence is a mystery, his grace a thing to envy, his decision to leave a painful loss.
You choose not to dwell on the latter. Instead, you picture him as he was in Solanis: absorbed in his task, joyful, bounding, proud. You remember his touch, gentle upon your shoulder. His infectious energy. The slow dance with Vynter.
You know nothing of him but what you see: power and grace.
He slows, muscles bunching; you fold your wings and plummet, your nose like the point of an arrow shot at the sand. The air whistles past your ears, tugs at your messy hair, ruffles your wings. It warns you not to play with fire, but you feel like getting burned.
You spread your wings, forcefully changing your trajectory; your shoulders groan against the strain but you narrowly miss the ground, shooting forward towards the stranger instead. Your wings raise slightly, as if to beat, but pausing oh-so-briefly on the upstroke—and then you snap them out, one low, one high, your body rolling over in the air as you tuck your wings to turn over fast. A heartbeat, that's all it takes, and you spread them again.
You don't know what it is; envy? An invitation? A challenge? But you glide and you watch and you wait.
[ idk have a barrel rolling horsebird ]
You have no other words for it, this awful, awful elegance, beautiful in a way that hurts to look at. He ripples under the sun, a mirage, a dream—your mind insists that he cannot be real. A liquid shadow when seen from a distance.
But his sweat smells all too real, and the prints he leave behind tell the story of a body meeting the ground; but how is it possible, when he seems so weightless? He sprints across the packed sand below, each stride eating up miles, lasting for eons, and you're not sure why watching him—a bird in flight—is so complex for you. His silence is a mystery, his grace a thing to envy, his decision to leave a painful loss.
You choose not to dwell on the latter. Instead, you picture him as he was in Solanis: absorbed in his task, joyful, bounding, proud. You remember his touch, gentle upon your shoulder. His infectious energy. The slow dance with Vynter.
You know nothing of him but what you see: power and grace.
He slows, muscles bunching; you fold your wings and plummet, your nose like the point of an arrow shot at the sand. The air whistles past your ears, tugs at your messy hair, ruffles your wings. It warns you not to play with fire, but you feel like getting burned.
You spread your wings, forcefully changing your trajectory; your shoulders groan against the strain but you narrowly miss the ground, shooting forward towards the stranger instead. Your wings raise slightly, as if to beat, but pausing oh-so-briefly on the upstroke—and then you snap them out, one low, one high, your body rolling over in the air as you tuck your wings to turn over fast. A heartbeat, that's all it takes, and you spread them again.
You don't know what it is; envy? An invitation? A challenge? But you glide and you watch and you wait.
[ idk have a barrel rolling horsebird ]
you’re a dreamer and you don’t know
that no story’s carved in stone
