‘ i’ll be leaving soon. ’
in a world where nothing grew and nothing was sacred, they created their own peace where they could : the sun and moon stringing themselves together on the same horizon, fingers quietly sworn - laced, mending the broken pieces of themselves like patchwork d o l l s . she takes the thread between her teeth and feels it break, smoothing the fresh stitching flat, and does not look at her sister ; doesn’t think about the claw and tooth that had rendered the fine fabric to shreds. they would make it whole again, together, like they always did.
( you’ll always be there for her, until you won’t. the truth is, the sun and the moon were never really meant to touch. the thought makes her sick. the thought feels like dying. )
‘ you could come with me. ’ in that, there is a quiet lachrymose. hope is a soft, feathered thing in the palm of her hand. she’s only trying to keep it alive. ‘ i could . . . ask her. she might allow it. ’ / @lycaena