Shadows all around you as you surface from the dark
Emerging from the gentle grip of night's unfolding arms
Darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel all alone?
The subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stone.
You Are The Moon, The Hush Sound
i.
It's a dream. A simple, recurring dream.
Bubbles glide from her mouth, and her breath makes them explode. Gentle hands are filled with yore, forever closed, forever unseen. Lifting them to her mouth, her eyes catch a glimpse of light; neon stars trapped in eclipse.
Palms unfold, soft like rosebuds; and these birds made of paper flutter beating hearts.
And every single one of them drowns in a lilac lake.
ii.
She meets him on the island, chubby cheeks apple red. Silent and awkward, he helps her up, slanted eyes averting eye-contact.
But that doesn't make his hand any less welcome. Or warm.
And when she sees him, out of the corner of her wide eyes, beyond the horizon of the setting sun, his eyes are blue than the seawater; hair burnished red.
iii.
Limbs grow, lithe and slender.
Kind of like a snake, except not. More like a tree, branches stretching, flowers blossoming. Rustic nature, taking course.
Wind blows, holding quavers and minims in the air. So she dances, hands entwined with his, lets the music flow… and leads them straight to the third.
iv.
Origami, haiku, piano concerts.
Friendship slides into place; paper skin their common link.
Smiles, laughs and kisses crease into a familiar pattern, an easy motion of rhythm.
v.
"You think it's a crane? Or maybe a swan?"
The paper bird is fragile in her hands, quivering ever so slightly beneath her round face.
If it's a swan, then she'll paint it black in memory of the ugly ducking, a reminder of hope, and her favourite fairy tale.
If it's a crane, then she'll place it on her shelf, and contend with a different animal to fold and bring to life next time.
vi.
She does not want to believe in a legend that sounds so beautiful in poetry and lullabies.
vii.
Willow trees, full of grace, are planted in their island.
Sun-starved and happy, the three of them lie on their backs, their carefree worries thrown into the breeze.
For now they sleep and let their grins spread into the sky.
viii.
It's only a cough. She tries to shake away their concern, as a rose thorn pricks her finger and slides through her hands.
Only a cough that won't go away.
And in the darkness, blood stains the paper bird that she has tried to free.
ix.
Her hands fumble with the latest project, untarnished and untouched.
Wonders if it's too late.
x.
The place to return to; their happiest memories.
She walks to the island, feet as light as air; warm sunbeams melting through water.
And all around her, paper cranes fly, mute swans singing.
Disclaimer: I do not own bleach.