@barelyspeaks.
august tastes a touch too cold, too foreign on his tongue. it’s not the heavy heat he grew up with. there’s an empty ache in his chest in the ironic space right where his heart resides. he refuses to name the hollow space home. adam spreads a hand wide, peering at the water in the gaps between thumb and first, first and third, third and forth ; he imagines his hand a window, his extremities blinds made out of flesh and bone. summer is dying at the tips of his fingers. if he tries hard enough he thinks there might be a thrum of energy under his feet leading the way back to a forest that owns his flesh and bone blinds and the eyes peering through them. he might be mistaken though. adam lynch’s beliefs seem to be fickle things these days without gansey to instill them and ronan to combat them. it seems fitting that he wound up here alone. a lonesome boy grown into a lonesome man all on his lonesome beside something far more vast than he’ll ever be — more unknowable than he’s even been.
