Starlight Satiation

You satiate me.

You are the heavens in these skeletal arms, you are the cosmos in these shaking hands. You are saccharine starlight, so sweet, so divine, so good. I could pull the true skies apart – leave you unscathed and instead reach my talons upwards, tear open those celestial bodies and make the heavens themselves weep… but those crystalline tears would be flavorless compared to you: mere water to your liquid gold.

Everything you are consumes me… and it seems only fitting as I consume you, too.

When you’re here.

When you’re not.

Your radiant luster clings to my palms long after you’ve gone, your seductive sheen gets stuck under my nails – evidence that I’ve clawed just a bit too deeply, that I’ve taken just a bit too much.

It’s never too much.

I dip my own fingers in my mouth and taste the lingering notes of rapture.

I lick my palms clean and drink every remaining morsel of paradise.

Soon, too soon, achingly soon… my palette is cleansed, my tongue, dry.

I’m left thirsty again.

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Conversations: I

“What’s worse,” he began, “to regret, or to carry on unknowingly?”

She thought about that for a time. “…Are those my only options?” she countered. “Failure or ignorance?”

“Yes.”

A pregnant pause.

“Regret,” she eventually answered. “Regret is far worse.”

“And what makes you say that?”

His tone was light, mildly interested. She shrugged. “Well, I’ve felt regret, and it feels something terrible,” she said. “But ignorance? I’ve never felt that. Ignorance doesn’t have a feeling. And I’d rather be numb than miserable.”

Red

Don’t lie, it’s all right

There’s no need for truth tonight

I just want to keep painting this fragile fantasy

Let me

Let me

Don’t try, it’s all right

There’s no need for us to fight

I just want to float around in this snow globe fantasy

Let me

Let me

I’d break skies for you

Grab the heavens with my fingers, rip them open, tear the clouds

Bleed sunsets into your pretty head

Make you hear navy, taste violet, know red

I understand now

I understand

Only Power: Chapter 4

The recently tailored robes fit, but Hadrian felt a stranger in them.

He’d stared at his reflection for a long time after initially donning the white, examining the boy in the polished silver who was no longer a boy at all, but a man.

Men in Ostium were considered mature enough to vote at the age of fifteen, and to serve in nearly any position of power by the age of seventeen. At eighteen years old, Hadrian was expected to fulfill his role as Senator, and to perform as aptly as his father had.

But Hadrian was not his father.

That much was clear by his appearance alone. Hadrian had contemplated this at length when he’d first put on the official robes, the clothing which all Senators wore to distinguish themselves from the commoners. His were white with green stitching, and fastened above his heart was his family’s sigil—a gleaming, silver serpent coiled around itself.

It may have been the same fabric which had once been draped around his father’s shoulders, but Hadrian Horatius could not have looked more different than Manius Horatius.

Manius had been tall and olive-skinned, a handsome man with smooth, auburn hair, broad shoulders, and a confidence that radiated about him. He was personable and friendly, an excellent speaker. Even those who despised him could not deny that he was charismatic, and probably hated him all the more for it.

Hadrian had inherited none of these traits.

He was nearly as short as his mother, with a thin frame and Lucia’s porcelain skin. His black hair was riddled with cowlicks, causing it to stick up on unevenly and giving one the impression that he had permanently just stepped out of a windstorm.

And all of this, perhaps, could have been tolerable. Hadrian might not have been so concerned with his appearance if the abnormalities ceased there… but then there were his eyes.

One was brown, a normal and benign hue. The other was not.

Hadrian’s right eye was a mixture of mottled colors, golden-orange near the center and a vivid, emerald green along the perimeter. His mother always said they reminded her of sunflowers and clover fields, or marigolds thriving within their foliage.

This iris alone was the single feature Hadrian had inherited from his father.


Excerpt from a continuing story of mine, Only Power. 

Linger

Full-bodied,
Rich,
You’re an oak-aged, liquid velvet.
So robust, aromatic,
Très charmant.

You’re made to sip,
Slowly.

You linger on the tongue,
Supple, smoky, slightly sweet.
Your after-taste says:

Wait.
Notice.
Feel.
Appreciate me for the masterpiece that I am.

Then, in the space between an exhale a lifetime –

Drink from me again.

You linger on the tongue…