Duster
by: Ayato Kamina
Disclaimer: I do not Final Fantasy VIII, nor do I own its characters.
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Her duster blooms a
field of daisies.
They raped the
hillsides of Centra—
now they blanket her,
every
inch dripping with the
scent of an impending sneeze.
Her hem flutters like
the wings of Bahamut.
Soaring along the
Estharian thermals,
I grip his side with
Grendel tenacity—
plunder and joy await
the next site,
Galbadians beware,
my voice
is smoother than a polished Revolver.
Past Odin's Tower, I
wander
to the hillsides
swamped with those foreign flowers.
No one to stop me,
I pluck with careless
words, "Yes, yes."
But they climb over my
hands and feet and body,
stems contort my face.
My screams
are muffled by streams
of petals— They take me before
the words can. They
take me like the lamp takes Doomtrain.
Every time I study this
duster, I sneeze nervously.
Every time I study her
face, I don't.