i hate dreaming of being alone

DEIMOS

The attuned nature of their bond made the stories easier: he was no master linguist or storyteller, wouldn’t have been able to do the events, the motions, justice. She must’ve known he’d be lost in them – world-weary and suffocating under all of the pressure, all of the monumental moments he was forced to relive (giving them life and images now; instead of the distinct memories coiled over his boundaries, his fringes, his edges, his lines). His efforts to draw away had only been to stare upon her in wonder, though the notion hadn’t escaped her – clenched tighter, grasped, lifelines, anchors, bulwarks, and foundations hooked there. So he settled for listening, placing his arms along shoulders, leaning his head back upon hers, still, silent, and stoic.

The details about her parentage caused his eyes to widen slightly, Wordsworth, the name belonging solely to Sam and Evie, Amalia’s mother drifting amongst the sanction, then harboring such secrets and revelations. Affairs, dalliances, liaisons, a stretch of bizarre underpinnings. Did it alter or change anything? Evie and her had been close anyway; the once-separation of blood likely didn’t matter. But Sam? His chest rumbled on musings, thoughts pulsing, pervading. No judgement, ascertaining the circumstances – situations meandered much the same along either Isilme or Helovia. “How do you feel about it?” Did she regret not having a connection with the man, since he was deceased? Did it change anything – especially with Sam’s role with the Voice?

i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky