THESE  ARE  EYES  THE  COLOR  OF  WEATHER  .  twin  rivers  of  blue  pooling  into  each  other  .  this  is  what  it  is  like  to  be  kindred  ;  my  lightning-bolt  limbs  traversing  the  snow  of  your  making  (  when  i  make  ground  you  do  not  burn  )  out  of  the  wreckage  two  will  forever  remain  .  this  is  the  place  of  annihilation :  a  cottage  by  the  sea  at  the  edge  of   the  world  .  havoc  inhabiting  anonymity ━  for  the  catastrophe  she  brings  is  a  death  on  high  /  a  death  from  above  .  a  necessary  cruelty  that  acts  with  the  kindness  of  quietude  (  but  here  we  are  not  ash  )  there  is  but  a  low  azure  blaze  of  the  stovetop  /  the  reaching  of  a  boiling  point  . 

          ❛  perhaps  not  lose  it  but  misplace  it  on  purpose  ?  ❜  bemused  there  is  airy  lightness  to  her  tone ,  one  that  usually  crackled  with  thunder  .  the  tea  is  then poured  into  fine  porcelain  cups  ,  the  mixture  of  leaves  and  spices  a  fragrance  of  comfort  at  the  heart  of  winter  (  umber  and  autumnal  /  a  season  gone  and  past  )  ❛  you  know  the  company  of  a  witch  is  not  frequently  sought  after  .  ❜  a  great  irony  considering  the  company  they  shared  at  the  present  ,  as  the  sorceress  intended  .  ❛  mind  ?  quite  the  opposite  actually  …  ❜  both  mugs  are  placed  upon  the  kitchen  table  as  a  chair  is  pulled  out  as  an  offering  to  her  companion  .  ❛   i  hope  that’s  whisky  so  we  can  put  it  in  our  tea  .  ❜

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐘  𝑾𝑬,      HALITES OF THE  RHEUMY EARTH      —     surfeit of the heavens,      bottlenecked cataclysms foredoomed to a  terrene peregrination,      indelible.      the most natural calamities are helicoid,      feminine;      irony’s elision is the eye of the storm,      imbued with a  𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒆  elsewhere truant,      as if  anemic nirvana  is earned by stomaching nature’s chromatic assault.        (      all of this to say,      we are  at once  the eye and within it    .  .  .      )        we world - edgers,      eluding obsequies,      derive succor only from  𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐿𝐼𝐾𝐸,      from the  shared cryogenic existence      —      two  limbo - lives  embroidering absolution.

𝙻𝙴𝚅𝙸’𝚂 𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳𝚂 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙳 𝙿𝚄𝚁𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚂𝙴      in dipping his fingers into the flesh of her hips,      his mouth a tangled heat of passion and acidity.      it mingles with the ghost of his breath and the   𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠   of restlessness against a tapestry of battery acid,      and the fine line of his lips briefly turns into the most translucent of smiles;      he would sooner pass it off as a trick of the light,      his thoughts in a web of opaque existence as consequence of her devotion.     ❛      in a …      ❜      the thought trails off   𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲   and whatever he wants to say finds difficulty in slipping through,      snagged against his teeth   with her weight pressed against him.      he huffs against the mold of her condition,      her own hands causing an increasingly obvious short-circuiting in the confines of his consciousness.      ❛      𝗶𝗻 𝗮 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲.      ❜

documents are inelegantly scattered across the surface of his desk,      a fixture of his attention now discarded and shelved at the back of his mind despite their importance.      the upward cant of his head is curious,      the dart of his tongue dangerously inquisitive as it runs along the edges,      and his eyes lid with the predatory snarl of intrigue.

❛      but you know i can’t really sleep.      can we just   [ … ]   find another way to   𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 ?      ❜

—𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐍  𝐓𝐎  𝐀𝐍  𝐈𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐊,      the meandrous mouth enjoins  asphyxia  for a symptom of feminal pride    (half a simper,    mounting).      the heart,      VAINGLORIOUS  at his bowline tongue,      is  indulgently onomatopoeic;      hammering  amour  into a rubescence that envigors her ghastliness,      an  𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆 - 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌  stain.        ❛❛        that’s not  particularly inspiring.        ❜❜        notice,      sententious crooning to belie a most crescive affection      —      its undulations,      the  𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑁𝐼𝐺𝐻 - 𝐻𝐴𝑃𝐿𝐸𝑆𝑆𝑁𝐸𝑆𝑆,      against the thew of him.        ❛❛        you don’t quite subscribe to the  sixty - second minute  whenever you’re engrossed with work.        ❜❜        motility encumbered by  grappling palms,      impelling intercession by  pendulation:      SUBVERSIVELY DEFERENTIAL  to the hand that feeds in  future - tense.

❛❛    this party is lame,  don’t you think?    ❜❜      calloused fingertips pick languidly at the sleeve of his robe;  the fabric feels suffocating on his shoulders now,  his benign temperament wavering as fatigue makes a home in his bones.  gold eyes flicker to meet hers    (  a mirror of him in more ways than one,  synonymous in their existence.  )   he offers a smile then, gentle & honest.    ❛❛    lets go for a walk,  i can’t hear myself think anymore.   ❜❜     >  @verglase​

laughter was the hymnal which encompassed the room  :   idyllic in time ,  although they have grown , their juvenescence was not assuaged.  knees brought close to her sylphine frame , willowy arms hold them close in an embrace   :   (   oh my dear friend   ,  your touch is gelid , yet your smile causes flowers to bloom , your friendship is something ached  &  yearned  ,  the winter   :    is merely the beginning of rebirth.  and perhaps that was it ,  the winter preluding christine’s spring   )    apples of her cheeks dusted their rose color  ,   tiers of white peering from plumes of roseate lips a rise , habitually she looks to the mirror , the vivacious animation of their gestures  and merriment all played out as if upon stage.  her hands reach for the porcelain teacups ,  offering one to her treasured companion , rim brought to her lips   [    Fika needn’t a definite time , now  ] 

❛  you truly enjoyed the aria then  ?    ❜   her syllables are doused in saccharinity,   her sepia pigmented eyes alight in avidity   ❛   if only i would have known you were seated in the box , you hold bravery you know   ❜  she says impishly, a cant of her head the latter a gossamer of curls to follow in the motion  ;  look peering through lowered lashes    ❛   box five is said to be forbidden  ❜  

𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐀  CRESCENT ATARAXY,      all in  sensation      —      that earl gray waft;      those canorous remnants of arias concluded,      plaited like woodbines along the mighty stalks of  𝒋𝒖𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒈𝒍𝒆𝒆;      .  .  .      &    this  LAMBENT DEMOISELLE,      her prolonged fulguration against a hedgerow of  would - be  prima donnas      —      twain hearts cleft athwart by time,      now sewn afresh.        (    to our conjunct  girlhood,    relegated to the floes of memory:      we meet in the equinox,      portend  𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑇𝐻𝐴𝑊.   )        ❛❛      of course i did.      you were magnificent.      ❜❜        fond fervency dulcifies the cadence,      simper skimming porcelain to subdue   (however bootless)   its luster.

            ❝         how   𝖔𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖓   have   you   gone  𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉   here      ?        ❞         curiosity    paints   her   words   a  sweet  shade  of  baby    -    blue,          and   She   watches  the  Other  with  a  careful  eye.                       A      𝔻𝔼𝕋𝕆𝕌ℝ       into  the  woods     and     here   She  finds  herself,      a  hand  on  the  𝙷𝙸𝙻𝚃  of  her  sword     and     her  feet  ready  to  carry  her  out.              a  stranger,    both  to  these  parts   and   to  the  woman,       her  maidenhood  becomes  excommunicated.             once  again,    she  requests     :       how  often  have  you  gone  through  here?         and  She  moves  backwards,       a  bit  further  away.

    ❝      they used to believe that witches lived in these woods. ridiculous, isn’t it?.      //    @verglase​​​​      (   +  a   )❞

legends    have    inklings    of    truth      ––––––     𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖌  on  her  tongue     and     even  stronger  to   leave  her  mouth,       her  sword  forgotten    as  intrigue  takes  a  hold  on  her  skull     and     enters  through  her  ears.          do  you  believe  in  them?        and   She  shakes  her  head,     forceful,     before  scoffing.

❝       THERE   MAY   BE   WITCHES   HERE.     ❞      a  change  of  heart,     quicker  than  the  first.        ❝       some  𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔,     however,     are  just  that.     ❞

❛❛      𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇,      i would say,    to know the  truth  of the matter.      ❜❜        THE VISITANT,      A SECOND SOMA      —      stirring the  𝖓𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖈𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖝:      she who saunters balletic into  scattered god - rays,      purposefully half - limned.        firmamental gaze      (   i become what i haunt   . . .   )      maunders in appraisal,      that bloodless haruspicy,      chronicling circumspection   &   a glinting glaive,      engendering a precipitant  𝒄𝒐𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒛𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆  of subsequent action,      the making of an anodyne mien      (— relenting the unworldly ). 

[  THAT IS TO SAY:  ]        of the mouth,      𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐧,      benignity tinctures the perianth,    avowing mildness   . . .        ❛❛      trust,      then,      that there are  NO WITCHES  here.      ❜❜

the night wraps around his feet,   curling like vicious animals around the hem of his scarf and the drapery of his cloak.     and from the edge of his eyes where magic once slept,   he could see the chill of the evening do the same to her,   snowflakes gently laid upon her in the finery a queen would have.       ❛  forgive my candor   ———   it’s just me,   mademoiselle,   and my strange way of acquainting myself with the world.     if you choose not to heed the unusual ramblings of a midnight stranger,   it’s a choice none shall fault you with. ❜       still shame is not a knife in his heart,   adamancy a sharp edge instead,   to his neck.     it would have drawn blood, had he any.     ❛  receive it as an  …  unorthodox compliment,   then. ❜

          “     i  couldn’t  agree  more   .  .  .   besides  ,   i’m  not  one  for  parties  anyway .     ”           THERE’S  A  BRIEF  MOMENT  OF  RELIEF   as  the  young  prince  steps  from  his  perch  next  to  her  ,   the  extension  of  his  hand  beckoning  her  to  follow .   hiccup  offers  her  a  fleeting  smile  ,   mossy  hues  trained  on  the  elegant  contours  of  her  features  as  a  faint  chuckle  escapes  as  a  few  quiet  puffs .   quietly  ,   he  mouths  :          “     let’s  get  out  of  here .     ”

❛❛     𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆  𝒏𝒐𝒘,    to  bed  with  me.       ❜❜        GHOSTING   alabastrine  touch,    traversing  neck  to  hands,    cajoling  half  a  weight  into   pliancy.        ❛❛      i’ve  plans  for  us  in  the  morning,    &    i  would  like  you  well - rested.      ❜❜        archly,    the  curl  of  lip,    coquettish  in  asymmetry,        ❛❛      the  bed  is  much  too  𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃  without  you.      ❜❜