*☾ ·˚. devour me .˚· ☽ *

And lover, when I am gone, seed The bed of my grave with cereals — and pluck both-handed The oats that shall yield from my body, and make Of them my funerary cake, proof Of curious abmortality. Ah — but that day is far off; And all my blood is yet mine, and you are here still. And lover, when I am gone, seed The bed of my grave with cereals — and pluck both-handed The oats that shall yield from my body, and make Of them my funerary cake, proof Of curious abmortality. Ah — but that day is far off; And all my blood is yet mine, and you are here still. Draw nearer, then, o dove-eyed eirene, you who are so sweet Of mouth, of palm; o, lay the soft weight of you on my arm — Make of my ribs a cradle, a coffin, a nuptial couch. I am fir-wrought, as you well know, and my spine Draw nearer, then, o dove-eyed eirene, you who are so sweet Of mouth, of palm; o, lay the soft weight of you on my arm — Make of my ribs a cradle, a coffin, a nuptial couch. I am fir-wrought, as you well know, and my spine

[cxhre]

Nights are easy to work. They’re the better hours to wander the earth through, at least in Ches’s eyes. With patrons dull eyes, drowning their sorrows in the bottom on a glass which Ches is always happy to pour for them. It’s easy to spot what everyone’s after, there’s always the same type. Everyone’s always someone else. The hair, the eyes, the way people will move through the dimly lit room. Some like sharks, swaying in the crowded ocean of a current beating against them. Control they’d try to take, as if the room is moving for them. How wrong they always were. Yet the disney pier would fill with the arrogance of those alike.

Ches would be distracted watching those move around the bar as they idly mused to someone who sat before them- unsure how long they’d been there for.  “How long does it take for a king to fall beneath his kingdom?”