She is lost and those who lay eyes upon her feel the heat emanating from last night’s time. The smoke curls at her will, twining between her fingers like string, like a stream of salmon satin that listens, that hears her command clawing at their subconscious.
But now they are estranged, meandering amongst the dandelions and practising darts with neurons that stand within heartbeat distance, absorbing each shot. And she twiddles her fingers like toothpicks after dinner and her fragility exposes the ice that melts into waves crashing against her ribcage.
He lays her on the eiderdown and caresses her voice until it bursts into the night with a gurgle and hiccup, but she says little. Her words remain in the woods, with the crow that hoards such things beneath his black hide.