#word(s)

The world is a cocoon: a bed sustaining him, safe and solid, with the shape of Phoenix’s body contained in his. Even the moonlight, so respectfully filtered by soft curtains, falls on their outlines like threads of silk.

It feels good, it feels normal. Even more so, when traces of old feelings linger at the back of his head. Those times where he traces the breathing creature in his arms, and his memories, and the idea of how they got there.

It happens – and like that, halfway to sleep, it feels different. It feels like they are lying at the heart of a net, all knots and dead ends and chance encounters. He identifies one path in their convoluted walk – the one they fought for, step by step.

It happens, and all of it feels fragile; the weight of what wasn’t, of what could have been, presses tough nails at the edge of his awareness.

He does not remember. He feels. Like a ritual his heartbeat must rise. It echoes, terrifying drums in his ears, for but a moment. And he feels again; ever there, ever new, the instinctive reaction that moves against his chest.

He stops feeling. He awakens. He finds luminous eyes looking for his own.

That’s really all there is to this; thingamajig.

Apathetically,