Stars are little hopes, she said. And he asked, What happens when they fall?
Star eyes closed, as for a moment her exterior ripples with dissolving, only to open again. There is no doubt, no fear, no longing for something else in the pure depth of white hot. It's only the smallest space to cross -- two inches -- before solidness can cause the faintest ricochet in her balance when her toes touch the ground.
The wish comes true. But wishes are never so simple--
The light under and in and of her skin flutters, like a startled candles in the strong evening breeze. Flutters and sputters softer and softer still, as the white of her eyes turns back to blue-silver, dampened by shadow. And even when pain -- a calling of the Star but no a knowledge of it -- blossom into her eyes, the awareness of another change singing through them all, it struggles with the irrefutable faith for The Moon.
They are like butterfly wings Beautiful, fragile things
She is the first domino in a line for morning, the candle in the erstwhile oblivion, the silver line -- a card of promise, not delivery, and all that she was in that moment goes to that one for one of the few beings she would give it all to. Because she can not doubt the act, the reason, or The Moon even when her eyes cloud with unshed tears.
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And he asked, What happens when they fall?
Star eyes closed, as for a moment her exterior ripples with dissolving, only to open again. There is no doubt, no fear, no longing for something else in the pure depth of white hot. It's only the smallest space to cross -- two inches -- before solidness can cause the faintest ricochet in her balance when her toes touch the ground.
But wishes are never so simple--
The light under and in and of her skin flutters, like a startled candles in the strong evening breeze. Flutters and sputters softer and softer still, as the white of her eyes turns back to blue-silver, dampened by shadow. And even when pain -- a calling of the Star but no a knowledge of it -- blossom into her eyes, the awareness of another change singing through them all, it struggles with the irrefutable faith for The Moon.
Beautiful, fragile things
She is the first domino in a line for morning, the candle in the erstwhile oblivion, the silver line -- a card of promise, not delivery, and all that she was in that moment goes to that one for one of the few beings she would give it all to. Because she can not doubt the act, the reason, or The Moon even when her eyes cloud with unshed tears.