[se] the poems we write

Pieces began to slide into place, and he was content to work through the motions, hands and mind occupied in corresponding intervals – chasing away any looming restlessness. He couldn’t recall any naming traditions within Isilme, they were more hellbent on war and invasions than anything else, so his brow arched at the segments of names for opposing genders, on alphabetic hymns that almost made him laugh. “We could try it.” Pausing, tilting his head, he studied the shapes in his palms, and then clicked more into their firmer segments. “I took my father’s name for my last,” which she now shared; so there’d be no reason for dual Ignatiuses running about, “and my mother was Stone.” None of his siblings followed any similar sentiments, so he wrinkled his nose again, figuring those weren’t going to take shape in any of their children.

No popular names – though he did grin at her compunction.

Maneuvering around other portion, he wasn’t certain about…Erec. “Ere…,” he hemmed and hawed, and now one could see why he’d named his companions after family members – a much easier task. “Erosion.” At which he laughed, clearly not meaning it.

deimos

Never let them drain the river of your soul