Midas is king and he holds me so tight
He grows: elongates, broadens, sprouts new limbs that stretch hungrily towards the open sky. His nostrils flare as he inhales, lungs widening in this new body that craves oxygen—his veins shudder to the beat of his heart. Aamu throws his head back and roars, letting his dragon's voice roll and rumble like thunder in the Outskirts.If words fail him, perhaps just screaming won't.
He lifts his large paws, pressing digits and claws into softening soil, snow-mush and charred ruins. And he feels it, the texture of the ground, the wood, and he smells it, the stink of death and smoke and put-out fires and burnt flesh—
(He craves hands, stroking his scales—)
With a snap his wings open, muscles bunching, and Aamu launches himself into the sky: his wings a second heartbeat booming over the Grounds as he arrows after Mabel, watching the ground fall away and change underneath the stars.
and turns me to gold in the sunlight
Aamu
