#inflowsnetwork

for anon prompt: your ribcage is trying to cage the sun // transcription below

they talk of little things, left in attic boxes with promises of returning left unfulfilled to gather dust and darkness in the eaves of this lonely place;

here is the sun before it dies quietly behind the horizon, light orange-ichor, as if it fears bleeding out too violently, heart wrent open like a ripe fruit;

there is a leaf trembling before it falls from the mother tree, a final desperate clasp-gasp of fear as it hurtles into change of organized matter into mush left to rot and fester with its brethren;

these are the first stars in the evening sky, white specks appearing in the blue-black bruises of the soul, as if light could fill what is no longer with something other than sorrow;

this is the sigh before the final breath of hopes and regrets, soothsayers predicting the end in the palms of loved ones and turning them away with a sad smile;

everywhere lies a tapestry, half-finished, threads loose on the loom, waiting for someone to pick them up again, stories untold except for in the mouths of the forgotten and dead;

autumn is the loneliest time, says the wraith and cuts the web

for anon prompt: our souls were made of the same kind of magic // transcription below