to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
Her inquiry hadn’t been meant to bruise or cut, just another contortion to whittle the time away, speculate between boughs, brambles, nettles, and thorns. What she saw though were haunted, poignant things in his eyes and face, and for a moment she nearly regretted prospering the inquiry: designed to hurt and maim in its emboldened, impulsive reaches, and might’ve done just that. The girl’s eyes narrowed for a moment or two, speculating, their gilded slits rummaging over canopies and branches, making sure not to have contact with the images rippling out before her. Fangorn leapt and bound amongst the underbrush, perhaps striving to find Astra as well, while Melita puzzled through her next response, a shift in her shoulders, then rising from the ground to wander to the next puddle. “So what are you going to do about it?” Wallow? Mope? Keep sinking into the weight of melancholy?
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
