Melita
Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down
to swallow the flame down
The unknown caused her to tilt her head, narrow her eyes again; not to dangerous degrees or decrees, but the bizarre semblance of this meeting. So what were they even doing here – she with distractions, he with aimless wanderings? She couldn’t help or assist with these semblances, fortunately or unfortunately, she really wasn’t certain either, and let the subject drop.
The honeybee expected him to start discussing Adam – and she had a myriad of questions about the nuances from beyond - but even Melita could fathom that it wasn’t a good time to begin discourse and discussions surrounding death, the afterlife, and subsequent resurrections. Not that there ever was a decent hour.
What made them come back?
Chosen in the Voice’s wake?
Did that change things?
The inquiries slunk behind her teeth, not dragged across her tongue, piercing away, back into her chest. Instead, she focused on other figments and fragments of the ridiculous conversation (incapable of following its feathering, trailing elsewhere, plumage she’d yet to decipher). She didn’t care that his hand was cool in her hand; Nate’s always had been too. She didn’t mind the scars either. Her body was marked with plenty of them.
It meant survival, in some way. That they’d endured. Sometimes more than once.
“His niece,” Melita presided. Whether or not this was a good connection either would remain to be seen – Sunjata had as many enemies as he had allies, interchangeable on mercurial whims and tempestuous days.
The honeybee expected him to start discussing Adam – and she had a myriad of questions about the nuances from beyond - but even Melita could fathom that it wasn’t a good time to begin discourse and discussions surrounding death, the afterlife, and subsequent resurrections. Not that there ever was a decent hour.
What made them come back?
Chosen in the Voice’s wake?
Did that change things?
The inquiries slunk behind her teeth, not dragged across her tongue, piercing away, back into her chest. Instead, she focused on other figments and fragments of the ridiculous conversation (incapable of following its feathering, trailing elsewhere, plumage she’d yet to decipher). She didn’t care that his hand was cool in her hand; Nate’s always had been too. She didn’t mind the scars either. Her body was marked with plenty of them.
It meant survival, in some way. That they’d endured. Sometimes more than once.
“His niece,” Melita presided. Whether or not this was a good connection either would remain to be seen – Sunjata had as many enemies as he had allies, interchangeable on mercurial whims and tempestuous days.
to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun
to be the sun
