*nervously drops a smol " wax poetic " in here*
Send ‘wax poetic’ for Gale to work some poetry; his muse is you: still accepting.
At times, Gale, chest heavy, feels as though he's plunged into an ocean. There, he would feel his pulse howling like unsparing undertows. To take a breath, sinking, is all he can do.
Shame. He startles a quiver when she settles beside him.
She smiles, understanding, and the wizard stares.
It's like—it's like she cares, he thinks. Yes, as if his miserable ending is what strikes fears. Gale sees the wamrth in her eyes, a color twinkling in the likeness of spring-month sap, and shadows within them mirror a riveting twilight, a canvas of nightfall like stars on the sea. Her breathing sings steady, a kind wind off the waves, and he fancies: you remind me so much of the waters at home—both a fathomless expanse my mind would swim.
Aniela balms his troubles. To be fair, just her company will soothe. She does not leave him, not here in the crest of his despair, and Gale, shoulders bumping, furrows his brow.
Kindness. Slowly, his somberness dithers. You could make the thought of drowning an attractive idea. Tempting. Oh. If it's to be in your tendermost depths, I'd be more than willing.
