( he is quiet, and it is the quiet of a mind forcibly calmed. features that twitch and settle and smooth into noncommittal nuetrality, the soft back and forth with lethe an emotional battleground he's subjugated for his own sake. that he creaks open, a door with unoiled hinges like the ones of murial's house, to steel himself for what comes through.
it does not help, and yet it steadies. does not explain, and yet encompasses. he blinks, the smiles startled for children, laughter following a beat behind but there.
fingers tucked around the scale at his chest, and the warmth can't balance with the taste of death, or the sparks of wrong and gone sizzling only infrequently as they move. did he feel them, truly? are they imagined, pretended? )
A haunting
( the answer, direct and true, still what he feels now, processing day to day. )
The same as to anyone.
( regrets and grief and recollection, however poor in detail. )
The same as to the star who chases chaos, lighting up the way.
no subject
it does not help, and yet it steadies. does not explain, and yet encompasses. he blinks, the smiles startled for children, laughter following a beat behind but there.
fingers tucked around the scale at his chest, and the warmth can't balance with the taste of death, or the sparks of wrong and gone sizzling only infrequently as they move. did he feel them, truly? are they imagined, pretended? )
A haunting
( the answer, direct and true, still what he feels now, processing day to day. )
The same as to anyone.
( regrets and grief and recollection, however poor in detail. )
The same as to the star who chases chaos, lighting up the way.