Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
Instead of doing anything else with it, the book remained there, amidst her fingers and clasp, like a stone, or an anchor, keeping her rooted in place. While he put away the dishes, she merely stared at it, lifelines and all, letting it remain, watching over them for the time being. Then, with a long, slow breath, she shook her head, glancing at the world around her again, instead of being absorbed into melancholy. “Do you want help putting the food away?” It’d certainly aid her in distractions and reality.
Maneuvering around to where the leftovers remained, her gilded eyes flickered back to the Flood; portions of lanterns and nuances shared. She couldn’t recall all the details he’d placed upon the sanction of memories – realizing, maybe, that she’d never even seen it. “What else is on it?”
Maneuvering around to where the leftovers remained, her gilded eyes flickered back to the Flood; portions of lanterns and nuances shared. She couldn’t recall all the details he’d placed upon the sanction of memories – realizing, maybe, that she’d never even seen it. “What else is on it?”
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
