There is nothing as hollow, nothing as deceitful, nothing as incomplete than the term of old friend when pinned to Taliesin. Though, what else remains when nothing besides that bond had time to blossom? How can one be called an old lover when only the heart knows of it like a torrid secret that couldnât survive if it had broken out of its cell? Is this what regret feels like? How it plagues the soul? Kingston tastes it on his tongue as if its coated in blood, a sharpness of iron thatâs hard to swallow down. In some ways, in more than some, it is its own beauty.
Another cut from silver, another fistful of strands, and Kingstonâs eyes drop to them as his voice slinks up to their ears. The taste of spiritual blood grows stronger, leaving the heart in a state of fondness as much as wreckage, a vicious cycle that it devours with avarice. Discarded tresses impersonate that of a thistle, a childlike wonder where the wind sweeps them out of the open palm like a wish will be granted. But Taliesin is there. Kingston is here. They may as well have the Atlantic still separating them. Thereâs a smile, anyways, before turning to the side with face directed to him.
âAs ephemeral as it might be, it only makes the heart grow fonder. I am an addict of the highest degree,â they agree in their own way, words strung together with stardust and distant dreams. It shows in the eyes, how burnt umber turns to honey in the sunset, resting on Taliesin. âHow is yours treating you as of late, my star? Tell me everything Iâve missed so I can be rich in envy.â
         he is seen and he looks away, looks down, anywhere but at kingston, eyes flickering back, sparing a glance. hesitant, always. isnât that what it has always been for them ? a dance, one step forward two steps back. taliesinâs constant promise to himself : iâll tell them. but oh, then they look, and they see him, and he falters. he doesnât want to ruin it like he has everything else.Â
        the host clears his throat as the other speaks, oh how cruel the way beaten heart flutters beneath the cage of ribs, how it warms and brings color to features. my star. something that means such different things to so many, a star, a wish, a gravestone. poetic in itâs meaning, just as they are in all things, taliesin has learned. how far meaning spans, how easily what it means slips from his grasp as soon as they say it. how long has it been since theyâve seen each other ? since theyâve been face to face ? a fragile smile tilts lips, something kind, something tinted with faded melancholy.
          eyes find kingston again, cautiously.  â it is . . . well, i hardly think this is the place to talk about how itâs treating me, dear. â  you never know whoâs listening, what eyes are set upon them, and he would much rather avoid the flicker of camera shutters.  â iâll tell you all about it, if you let me fix the mess youâve made of your own head, hm ? or at least let me take you to someone who can touch it up a bit. â  to be fair to the other, it wasnât terribly bad, but minor touch ups would no doubt need done.Â