MELITA
Melita was simplistic in her likes, the platitudes ranging from flowers, bees, shiny objects nestled in waterfalls, to raucous acts of emboldened violence, and a whole plethora of things layered in between. But Maeve had seemingly found a sweet spot in nectar and tea, in the way shells enamored in glazes from the sun, in not twisting or turning over the dramatics and chaotic semblances of this world. It was easier, and more meaningful, perhaps, to have these opportunities and chances to sink into something that wasn’t sorrow. That wasn't guilt. That wasn’t ashes and upheaval. Those hours were always numbered at best.“Maybe,” she pondered, trying to remember a particular pitch and hum under her breath, pulsing it outward. “That would be nice! Before monsoons and Ark trips.” A moment to look forward to before upcoming melees and hellholes.
Then she maneuvered closer, to where Maeve had indicated a piece of obsidian hues. “Ooh, ok!” Her hands went in, strong, sturdy muscles woven from days and season and years of training, forging and foraging into the sand, digging, digging, digging.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
