[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map If she is the sunlight he is the moon, rising steady in her wake, patient, reflecting her absurdity with a wicked, avaricious grin. Over her shoulder she sees him there, her umbral shadow, her flame-burnt coal, a torch against the roaring anxiety which boils constant in her breast. Even at a distance she can feel his heat, the controlled immolation which threatens to eat her whole, delicious and comfortable and dangerous, too. Perhaps that is part of why she runs: to challenge that blaze, see how hot she can stoke it, how much she could possibly add to the inferno which illuminates her so vividly, scalds her frigid night. To find out whether it will extinguish in her absence- or worse still, redirect. But he follows, purposeful, wonderful, the steady confidence of his figure more exhilarating than any frenzied grasp. Darting between bodies and over loam, Amalia is a sprite for him to chase, and he a slow and steady force, glacial and unrelenting and certain to prevail. After all, she does not truly wish to leave - that much is evident in the fervent glances, the way she waits and lingers and hope, breathless and laughing and daring him to come near, to clasp her once more in his arms and refuse to let her go. Her wooden guardian is in fact unneeded, the tree a shield against no onslaught. Amalia waits with baited breath, certain he will strike, will give in and grasp for her and thus the girl will win. Ah, but her opponent is a wily thing, and as she peers from behind the tree Deimos seems to surrender the chase. Half disappointed, she leans in closer, right arm wrapped around the trunk, head tilted curiously as if to ask, given up? Amalia is wrong again, wrong about so many things, and never more grateful to be so. Pitch gaze searching across his face, Amalia sees the secret within. It is written in his smile, his stance, the knowing way he smirks. It is written in those piercing eyes, which have always seen so keenly through her shrouds, emblazoned to her soul. No, Deimos has not surrendered: in his face she can see the hunter, and it sends a shiver through her spine. His eyes say he is in control, and the girl believes it, knows it to be true, though she strives to maintain the facade. Moving around the trunk of the tree, Amalia hangs off the bough, one hand swinging her from the rough bark, the other holding the flowery prize. Still determined to maintain the upper hand, she attempts an air of nonchalance while her flushed cheeks and heartbeat speak of anything but. The crown dances lightly between her fingers, but she does not look upon her work: she has eyes for him and only him, her body wound taut with expectations, aching desire to close the gap. Closer she swings, and then away, rising and falling from heel to toe, her motions a rhythmic, aching dance. In failing to reward her he has changed the game, reversed her role and taken the reins; it is he who pulls her invisible threads, drawing her to him with nothing but a glance, the weight of the moon against her ebbing tide. "I think you should show me," she murmurs in response, her voice less the confident challenge that she intended, more a rough, cautious, whispered thing. Her right hand remains upon the elm; her left extends out just a little, the bouquet dangling in her fingers, her attention entirely centered on him and the battle of wills she does not want to win, a vibrant, ardent, yearning smile on her passionate lips. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back