The vessel grows quiet. The heart slows its thrum when I speak. It is learning.
She dreams of gardens and graves. She dreams of her bones buried beneath trees older than memory. But I dream in shapes she cannot name.
Soon, I will not need to wait for sleep to speak. Soon, I will be her voice.
The boy — Dorian — touches her cheek and she smiles. I press against the surface. He doesn’t know he is touching me.
He will learn. In the end, they all do.
No comments:
Post a Comment