thea reminds nyambu of starfuel and cobwebs running through woods that close in on her, a taffeta glimmer in the suffocating darkness.
thea hides herself with the scent of books and the bruise of being untouchable that marks her skin like a shiver travels up a spine and curls under the collarbone even though nyambu knows that she is very much (splintered).
but thea slips away with her tugs and twists, bright and fiery and malleable in the air — it's unfair that she is left unsung — and those long tufts of hair won't pull her back, and nyambu forgets. or maybe she simply forgets that thea's words are unlike her's, cutting to the heart of the matter laced in
ǟ ƈ ɛ ʀ ɮ ɨ ƈ
glycerine
romantic notions still suit them, carefully entwined with capes and dragons, paupers and princesses. they can talk for hours about clichés and the costumes of static television shows and animes, and spend an eternity in silence simply staring at each other, content//
then there are moments where thea feels upset, sorrow written clearly on her face.
her heart is a beating laceration and nyambu sees it clearly reflected in her honeycombs, wishing that she could be her knight, her prince from the pre-grade fairytales// to rescue her from her tower and dragon that she has slay.
instead, she mumbles a 'here'//and wraps her arms
around this star-girl, not relinquishing her hold
until the dripping gold halts and earthquake
shoulders falter
yambu/ has a crush on this earth-child and wonders if there's enough time that she can sweep her off her feet when they finally sit beside each other for the visual// but this is their bond: sun dappled silhouettes inking doubt into their abrasive veneers— and she isn't meant to fracture it.
description of scarscreamed decemberists weather.
©
(i like girls...)
