it’s a foggy mess, all of it, the dying and the undying and the being and the unbearable edge to everything, where she feels like something that’s been cramped underground in a box for years; stretching limb and wing with every step, and there’s nowhere better to relearn yourself than on the outskirts.
long, broad wings vanish like a trick at the audible crunch of earth underfoot - under someone’s foot. surprise, at the cold-shrunken, bewildered look of him, registers in her stomach and then dissipates, as though she shouldn’t be surprised at all. she had wondered if it should’ve felt different, if she was alive and he was dead, as she’d assumed - if she should’ve been able to feel his death like a phantom limb - and this — this explains it. it’s really hard to get dead.
‘ — robert? ’ // @owncurse.
