DEIMOS
Between the two of them, there were too many ghosts. They’d lived in pathways of hell and survived when others had fallen, toppled, and been stoked in demise; people they cherished, people they loved, people they thought would be there for lifetimes. They’d both found similar ways of coping (violence, upheaval, damned insurrections and seditious spreads, when fires grew into infernos and when enemies stained the floor, bones scattered in their wake). In some way, they were still fortunate to have one another – and he knew this, he knew it, deep down in the marrow of his pitfalls and the semblance of his disasters, that one wasn’t Kiada, and their suffering was shared. The phantoms slipped into his vague, almost non-existent smile, his unspoken inquiry answered. I would have said yes.
But it didn’t matter – and those insinuations hurt too, eternally craving things they couldn’t have, couldn’t bear, couldn’t contain. It’d been parallel movements like that for what felt like centuries and eons, eternity in the bridges and breadth of solitude. He breathed, listening, listening, listening, an ear to everyone and everything because sometimes it was all he could do. He couldn’t bring the boy back – had no powers of resurrection, even when he’d somehow been brandished from a tomb and sent back to live, to suffer, to cherish again.
He could do this for her though.
“I can do that,” an offering, extending his hand again in case she truly wished for the charm to take on a new shape, a symbol, dedication to a lad who no longer breathed, but she’d still loved all the same, before, before, before, and after, after, after.
But it didn’t matter – and those insinuations hurt too, eternally craving things they couldn’t have, couldn’t bear, couldn’t contain. It’d been parallel movements like that for what felt like centuries and eons, eternity in the bridges and breadth of solitude. He breathed, listening, listening, listening, an ear to everyone and everything because sometimes it was all he could do. He couldn’t bring the boy back – had no powers of resurrection, even when he’d somehow been brandished from a tomb and sent back to live, to suffer, to cherish again.
He could do this for her though.
“I can do that,” an offering, extending his hand again in case she truly wished for the charm to take on a new shape, a symbol, dedication to a lad who no longer breathed, but she’d still loved all the same, before, before, before, and after, after, after.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
