Ok, so this is sorta drabbley and I could no longer repress my style of writing so yeh. See if you can make sense of my cryptic cryptic self. Lots of symbols and links. Also, now that I have marginally more people paying attention to me, please please please give me prompts? I've gotten down to using random word generators as my bunnies. That's how desperate I am. Sad, huh?

Take

This cliff is imprinted on its backdrop like a stamp on an envelope, ink on paper, indomitable by anything less determined to simply be. But water soaks weakness into the playful veins of colour and tears paper more irreversibly than anything with steel or claw. The sea cannot be beaten, and she wonders how comforting its embrace could be, how much it could erase. Pregnant air hangs like honesty itself, blatant and harsh. She prefers the sun, for warmth and light lies more often than coldness ever could. She likes to think that the sea below feels it as much as she does, and that's why the white-rimmed grey breaks so continuously upon the cliffs that the land itself hums and groans. Sheba hums too, but her frequency is one of life, incompatible with stone dead earth. She wonders how it would feel if this outcrop collapsed into the sea and if she went with it.

Pockets of time pop like tiny soap bubbles and those craters linger in the air until she cannot count how many years have passed since she came to bleed her woes into the almost-storm, only for it to rain down somewhere far away. Maybe none, which would be cruel. At least as time passes, space does too and wounds heal. The wind glides, heavy and swirling though in no way is it kind. Perhaps she should give herself to it as a gift. It must be lonely. The weather, she realises, suits and she's not afraid of the sawdust-smile that she sends to greet just another brutal wave, another restless swath of sticky sky, another circuitry expanse of time.

An empty insecurity has become her companion since she thought loneliness would finally leave. In a sense, it has, yet this kind of replacement is no blessing at all. What is she to him, an ugly gauntlet? What are her words if not meaningless droning? Hot doubt blooms and she lets it. Is he only here through pity, painting her own glorified face with more shame than it already is? She should not try so hard to comprehend him in the hopes of keeping together the fracturing fragments of her heart. Perhaps she should let it break and then move on without the pieces. Peace, after all this, is what she wants now. For Sheba is this storm, this sea, this cliff. She is brooding and violent and jagged, a lullaby for the wicked, which is why when she opens her eyes in the night, Solomon is awake. Except this cliff is ancient, this storm is timeless, and the sea here is vast and enrapturing. Everything she is not.

Her tiny pocket mirror, it is grey towards the sky, against the sea. Her reflection is someone she wishes she was better than, the glass her own vessel. Her reflection glares out at her, not even envious, hardly sorry. She gazes back into the depthless surface. How controlled, how simple that world seems. What will happen then, if the mirror breaks? Planar and direct, the little item is the kind of thing that she knows not the origin of, but has somehow always been there. Like him, only never reflecting her. His glances, his nods, his words cannot be read and she wonders when he'd last looked at her with something she could understand. Her mind is too busy being drained of thought. There's no solace, no reply from within.

The mirror remains rigid in her hold, and cold, merciless in its silence. Maybe if it shattered, it could give her an answer, however false. Maybe its splinters on stone will spell out words less broken than the characters themselves are, she is. Maybe if she drops it far enough, she won't have to see that worthless girl staring back. Sheba lets her fingers slip and a sharp edge grazes another bubble of tick tick tick. It pops. But then the the mirror never has the chance to fall very far. Solomon's sudden arm are longer than hers and he snatches it out of the air, pale face flashing mournfully towards the sky. "What do you think you're doing?" She is silent, not even bothering to watch even as she sees, not bothering to feel even as a deep anguish lashes its serrated chains about her chest. She's not doing anything, but she doesn't tell him that. The sky fades out like it always does, the sea grows silent and the intensity of everything left spells tomes of pain. He should not have stopped her, stopped that.

"Give me back, give my mirror back," she whispers, realising suddenly that the rephrase makes far more sense. She hates the words for it. But Solomon folds it into his fingers until only one smooth expanse peers out.

"Not until you do." And there, trapped from between his hands, his image, dark against the sky. She's suddenly far too tired even to understand what he's saying. She hasn't taken anything, not even a sip of water from his glass. What he's taken, what he's stolen is hardly fair.

"Promise me not to take anymore." She's walking away now, turning her back, awaiting no answer. She's had enough. But Solomon catches her shoulder as she passes, and she regrets not skirting that much wider, maybe into the ocean. It's deafening again, and spray shoots so high that she swears some of it is salty on her lips. Impossible, but there's nothing else that liquid should be. The stone below should be smooth enough, shouldn't it?

"I'm so sorry, Sheba, but I can't do that."

The gravity of what he's saying is something she's terrified of, be it what she'd once hoped. All those days, ticking past like seconds on a pocket watch, soundless whenever hidden. Blind if ever broken. He steals something else now and the mirror falls at last free, the places where it was embedded only minutes old. It shatters and sinks upon jagged stone, surface just warmed by skin surrenders into the harsh chill of the sea. A rock falls away after it and disappears like salt into water. The splash is silent, drowned by ocean. Rain like grieving mist fills the air, a hesitant swarm so thin that it does nothing more than dust her trembling eyelashes whose kin are splayed across the earth.

Did you get that all? And what happened at the end? -eyebrow wiggle- That's one pretty intense ending if you get it~

Sorry dear lord Solomon I have sinned.

ahem. ye. Please review and prompt me!