anoracleâ:
Maybe there were always meant to be something like this, only a cryptid and only an art. Only art. Only smeared blue and black across their faces, skin made to look like stars, skin made to look like oil stains. Does it fit them better than their own skin? Does it seem like they were made to be things seen as masterpieces? Do you find them beautiful now? As much as she could have told you before, how beautiful a person can be? How beautiful the world can be?Â
Do you see the way bright visions hold their own drops of light and color?
If they always must wonder if what they experience is real - how long is will last, if she must choose which dream of theirs to live in, she thinks she might choose this one now. Awake and alive. Cheeks all red, herâs turning a brighter shade when she sees his own shades. âYeah?â Laughter in it, hiding the pad still close to her chest, like hiding there herself, âStop counting then, for a second, pretend weâve paused. Or they have outside,â the camera crews. âI still have a few things to finish, and yes. And let it be the same thing I can do for you too,â think of streets theyâre lost in and nervous words, âWhat would convince you - to forget to count?â
Thereâs still red cheeks, think theyâll stay there forever, when he asks her to stay still, moves her sketches behind her back to wait, speaks in a whisper, as if it keeps her from her own fidgeting, hands that want to move, take a place at her chin, worry at a bottom lip, something fond still. âDid you mean you ran out of stars, or wishes? I donât think thereâs too many wishes you can make on a star.â
pencil across paper leaves hard lines, steady and sure - no trembling, no hesitating. almost a home there, in between the shades and smudges, quick eyes flickering between girl and paper, teeth biting lip without a word, without a counting. only the silence that isnât a haunting, only a girl he tries to keep on paper, but never quite right. one day, maybe.Â
it takes him a moment to reply, finishing his drawing before he does, looking at it with steady eyes and holding it up with nose scrunched softly for a moment before flipping to a blank page, tucking it under arms again. is satisfied enough, smile shy again when he looks back to emme.
âhow do you imagine a pause when you have to keep breathing? iâll start to count those, too, after a certain point. measure time with it, if not with all the clocks in my head.â said easily, said lightly. doesnât mention how the ticking sounds like a time bomb at night, make it something quaint instead. easy, like this smile, like this red in cheeks, blossoming.
dear heart, stop leaping, wonât you? youâll get caught in a snare like that; one looking just like that smile.
âwhat would convince me to forget to count?â a little grin, bashful and bold, for him. âwhat would convince you to sleep? i suppose we both need better bad habits.â
he takes smaller hands in his again, starts guiding her to someplace else where they can suspend time for a moment, find another forever on the third floor, perhaps. âwishes, i think. is that possible? to not want any more anymore?â












