everytime
+ @arcyeon
emotion hangs between them like a low moon.
his thoughts pool and the gentle pull of gravity cuts ridges into them, carves waves and smooths their edges, stretches them out. their silence spills into a another tune -- the murmur of oceans, the quiet ballad of crashing waves. at her design, borders fall apart, seams become undone; where his thoughts begin and end no longer matters; they bloat and swell and he's submerged in their song. his bones seem to chase her voice, almost ache as they sit still and ready. his feet point in her direction and, when emotion finally washes over him, his toes curl.
she provides the feeling, but it's yohan that gives it shape.
light and dark line up in a blue horizon; his mother emerges, her silhouette flimsy, indefinite; her arms stretch and his feet awaken, take him to her. but she never grows near, he never advances -- he falls into an endless prance. laughter arrives and sails across his memory, splatters between them like spilled paint; the color is bright, its hue exaggerated. balloons come together in a clumsy clump behind her; another kid squeals. his mother speaks but he can't hear anything past the tone and texture of her voice, so real that it feels tangible and heavy; it has weight and he reaches forward, tries to hold it in his hands.
but his fingers grasp at air, fold into his palm, reel him back to the room he's sitting in. his knees are bent at neat angles, his neck is stretched; his adam's apple juts out at his throat; it rises and falls as he swallows the music of his daydream before his chest picks at its shape and finds words hidden in the woodwork.
"i see my mother," he declares, though his voice is too soft; it doesn't fly straight, but leaps and dives, curls in the air -- a kite whipping in the wind. "she looks so much younger. i'm much younger -- a child.
"she has a red ribbon in her hair and it's getting stuck in the wind. she has hair in her face. i'm running to her -- her arms are open. i don't know where we are, but there are other kids. there are balloons behind her. the sky is blue, no clouds. my father isn't there."
and he wonders if she can see the same -- if their ventures into their terrain of memories coincide. if they step on the same branches, hear the same break, or if they chase the same falling leaves. he wonders if she holds the same taste of cotton candy on her tongue, and if it fills her mouth like sugared water; stains the velvet with honeyed violets. but his questions line his throat, never to be spoken, only wondered -- always the wonder. a smile lays on his lips, languid and lazy, and his eyes creak open before they close again.
they flit open when the bass drums in his chest and he sees a dim room and a herd of bodies bumping into one another, as though searching for their missing piece -- that perfect fit. his eyes search and find her gaze. time slows, the seconds drip, and gayeon's eyes look more golden than they should.
they sway -- sink into the state of unrest -- but he can't look away from her gaze; he expects too much, though he recognizes it's nothing more than their usual routine. even the song, lost in its own volume, is familiar, almost nostalgic.
he doesn't speak, rather mouths his words: ready?
