will you even notice
The starry twilight cast its light like little inkling rays, daggers of memory cascading from the heights of the heavens down to the crumbs of dirt. Pain throbbed from Aster's temples all the way down to his toes, as he ached.
The smell of warm bodies bathed his memory, a dogpile of legs, feet, soft and rough hands, kept and unkempt hair. The reward after a long day of searching as a Hummingbird, heavy little wings beating throughout an open field, returning to a sister, a brother, a mother a father all in a pile of shared exhaustion. The intoxicating fondness of having someone's leg jab his ribs, a hand caress his hair, little toes tickling the side of his forearm and not knowing whose it was. A body underneath him and a body on top, the warm flesh of his own blood coursing through another living being, surrounding him. Crushing him at times.
Aster lay awake now, stricken by the cold. The deep dark hole of deprivation. He grasped against the cold ground, aching for the caress of someone warm, someone close, someone familiar. It was as if the very air he breathed was laced with an unfamiliar frost bite, and one by one the layers beneath his skin were seeped with this cry of longing, of carnal attention, of home.
"WUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUGHHHHHH!" He gasped for air after his loud, deprived wail. His agony oscillating between the sound waves emitted through his exsasperated lips. For a moment he could not remember any of their names. His mother, father, brothers, sisters, and so he grew afraid. Who was he even crying out for?
Was anyone really looking for him? Did anyone even care? Was the family dogpile pile any less warm without him?
"Help." His voice was reduced to a whimper, as he lay alone in the dirt, the purple roses and dragon lilies and crysanthemum all louder than him as they swayed in the twilight's wind.
The smell of warm bodies bathed his memory, a dogpile of legs, feet, soft and rough hands, kept and unkempt hair. The reward after a long day of searching as a Hummingbird, heavy little wings beating throughout an open field, returning to a sister, a brother, a mother a father all in a pile of shared exhaustion. The intoxicating fondness of having someone's leg jab his ribs, a hand caress his hair, little toes tickling the side of his forearm and not knowing whose it was. A body underneath him and a body on top, the warm flesh of his own blood coursing through another living being, surrounding him. Crushing him at times.
Aster lay awake now, stricken by the cold. The deep dark hole of deprivation. He grasped against the cold ground, aching for the caress of someone warm, someone close, someone familiar. It was as if the very air he breathed was laced with an unfamiliar frost bite, and one by one the layers beneath his skin were seeped with this cry of longing, of carnal attention, of home.
"WUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUGHHHHHH!" He gasped for air after his loud, deprived wail. His agony oscillating between the sound waves emitted through his exsasperated lips. For a moment he could not remember any of their names. His mother, father, brothers, sisters, and so he grew afraid. Who was he even crying out for?
Was anyone really looking for him? Did anyone even care? Was the family dogpile pile any less warm without him?
"Help." His voice was reduced to a whimper, as he lay alone in the dirt, the purple roses and dragon lilies and crysanthemum all louder than him as they swayed in the twilight's wind.
when I'm not around?
Aster
