COLT
Always comes back around to simple things
A song you know from the past coming on
A drink in your glass at the end of the day
A song you know from the past coming on
A drink in your glass at the end of the day
She thought the glimmer of an apology, that subtle flickering of remorse trying to rise on her behalf, was the worst thing anyone could give her. She’d been wrong. Hearing him soften into understanding, watching the way he gathers, careful and deliberate, to trace the shape of it without making it plain, that does her in more readily than anything before. It’s nothing he does incorrectly, quite the opposite. He doesn’t brush past it, as she has tried to do time and again. He doesn’t fumble with it, as so many tilted frowns and sympathies have done. He presses in on the space around it, known and steady, and it flows down into the new angle of weight. It’s too built up still to have dispersed fully, and that might always be true, resurfacing years from now with some unexpected trigger. Less a sign of failure than love, and grief nothing more than its continuation, and for that she’s certain there’s no possible end.
In response, it wells up in the shape of tears, her next blink wet and salted. She slides her gaze away, ducking behind her glass and willing nothing more than what the air could dry. She promised herself no more, the champagne an attempt to keep that. ”Does it get easier?” she asks, the practical curiosity of someone trying to find the border of hurt, and cross it. If anyone would know it, she’s sure it would be him. Surely her loss appears insignificant in the face of everything he’s held and had torn away, though he doesn’t treat it as such.
”The starting over?” She glances back, once it feels safe enough to see him again, convinced the thickening of her voice can be passed off as she clears her throat, as if the drink’s dryness is all there is to blame. She’s not foolish enough to think it works, but for her sake, she sticks to the possibility of surviving the charade. ”Do you ever regret it?” That comes out softer, almost shy, as if she knows better than to wonder at it. Absently, her finger drums around the glass, ring faintly clicking against it.
She has rebuilt before, but this is probably her first real time starting over. She’s held on so tightly to everything behind her that the lightness now feels entirely unsettling in a way she pretends is fine, shaping it into something more romantic, like freedom. She’s turning into wind, but does it ever worry that it can’t keep a grip on anything, that it’s not enough, the way that she does?
Tried and true, she exhales from the corner of her mouth, tipping back a bigger swig of celebration, hoping it’d be enough to drown what’s trying to run over. ”I’ll be sure to save a section for him,” she remarks with a humor that is not false, even if it rolls in easy, too easy after. ”Especially if he can make anything nice out of it. I wouldn’t mind a sculpture for the front yard.” She tilts her head, mouth twitching. ”Front dune?” she tries instead, before yielding with a shrug.
Attention shifts, willing to catch on anything external like it could be a foothold. So his work draws her in, sincere with the appreciation of things she doesn’t understand, at least not the creation. It’s perhaps the last form of magic they all can share equally, the ability to turn a profession’s day-to-day into a novelty, a rarity, an excitement for someone else. Art and expertise have ever been the true power of the world. ”It sure seems like you’re having a blast,” she remarks with no hidden amusement around the rim of her glass as she brings it back to her lips, a smile biting into the edge before the alcohol turns it down.
”I appreciate you finding time to fit my request in then,” she murmurs, aware that the requirements of his region would be high on the list, and his life busy with newborns, among other things. ”I can always trust your work. The wig is still holding up perfectly.” Her own hair has begun to regrow, but not enough that she’d go without his addition yet.
In response, it wells up in the shape of tears, her next blink wet and salted. She slides her gaze away, ducking behind her glass and willing nothing more than what the air could dry. She promised herself no more, the champagne an attempt to keep that. ”Does it get easier?” she asks, the practical curiosity of someone trying to find the border of hurt, and cross it. If anyone would know it, she’s sure it would be him. Surely her loss appears insignificant in the face of everything he’s held and had torn away, though he doesn’t treat it as such.
”The starting over?” She glances back, once it feels safe enough to see him again, convinced the thickening of her voice can be passed off as she clears her throat, as if the drink’s dryness is all there is to blame. She’s not foolish enough to think it works, but for her sake, she sticks to the possibility of surviving the charade. ”Do you ever regret it?” That comes out softer, almost shy, as if she knows better than to wonder at it. Absently, her finger drums around the glass, ring faintly clicking against it.
She has rebuilt before, but this is probably her first real time starting over. She’s held on so tightly to everything behind her that the lightness now feels entirely unsettling in a way she pretends is fine, shaping it into something more romantic, like freedom. She’s turning into wind, but does it ever worry that it can’t keep a grip on anything, that it’s not enough, the way that she does?
Tried and true, she exhales from the corner of her mouth, tipping back a bigger swig of celebration, hoping it’d be enough to drown what’s trying to run over. ”I’ll be sure to save a section for him,” she remarks with a humor that is not false, even if it rolls in easy, too easy after. ”Especially if he can make anything nice out of it. I wouldn’t mind a sculpture for the front yard.” She tilts her head, mouth twitching. ”Front dune?” she tries instead, before yielding with a shrug.
Attention shifts, willing to catch on anything external like it could be a foothold. So his work draws her in, sincere with the appreciation of things she doesn’t understand, at least not the creation. It’s perhaps the last form of magic they all can share equally, the ability to turn a profession’s day-to-day into a novelty, a rarity, an excitement for someone else. Art and expertise have ever been the true power of the world. ”It sure seems like you’re having a blast,” she remarks with no hidden amusement around the rim of her glass as she brings it back to her lips, a smile biting into the edge before the alcohol turns it down.
”I appreciate you finding time to fit my request in then,” she murmurs, aware that the requirements of his region would be high on the list, and his life busy with newborns, among other things. ”I can always trust your work. The wig is still holding up perfectly.” Her own hair has begun to regrow, but not enough that she’d go without his addition yet.
It's the sound of the rain coming down
It's a call from a friend that you love
All the time you can waste
Trying to chase what you'll never need
It's a call from a friend that you love
All the time you can waste
Trying to chase what you'll never need
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
