DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
She reached for the fire and he didn’t stop her – he always did, searching for the flames, waiting for them to blister, to seethe, to torment. “Because sometimes beautiful things do.” Entranced again for a moment, by the heat, by the surge and swell, and then he let it die, wither and decay in his palms, until they were nothing but ashes and bones and soot and remnants. Fractions of wholes and powers that made him bleed and crush.“Yes.” He agreed. He had to save himself. He had to stop from going under on his own. “But it is very hard.” There were moments when he didn’t want to. Preferring the darkness, the throngs, the veils, the abyss; comfortable and familiar, to glide in on midnight oils and Stygian hells, and not think about what he’d left behind or could’ve been or would’ve dreamed, if he wasn’t so damned. So stupid. So exhausted.
The fatigue ached in his bones then, quiet, perplexed, scalding, one after the other. “Me too,” he coincided, agreed, echoed, wherever they ended up roaming. Into lava. Into heavens. Into souls.
“You can rest here. I will watch.” For as long as he could; stalwart as he sat up and reeled, tormented by too many figments and factions of light suddenly bombarding his eyes. They came from the corners and sides, bending and swaying, orbs that made his head ache and his heart numb, jaw clenching to subside the torment. “I do not feel well either. But you rest. It is your turn.” A whisper into the night, and his hands were in the grass again, feeling the texture billow around his senses. “You forget to sometimes.”
Unite and spread the heart apart
