Ichor glues our cracked smiles and gold shimmers in our eyes and our eyes leak stardust. We grace each other’s hands with ethereal touches, feather, a shiver of light bathing us in the complacency of it all. Playing God. So that the sun will set on us and the beauty will remain evergreen. In piety. We are not broken and our inevitability eclipses ashen dust and; merciless cold - for however bottomless it may be - is but another monotonous myth to shield keen eyes from whatever the outside thirsts to condemn. Thrashing. Cold. Unfair armour. We are not broken, we are fragments of the moment, mended by sunbursts and ostentatious marble.
Young mortals with ichor cascading through us. Young gods. Divine and naive and most of all happy. He knows me with flame dancing out of his fingertips, he knows me so well and it murders me so sweetly. I hate him.
My sun. My Pandora’s box.