Cliche as it sounds, it's true. Maybe they'll fail. Maybe this companionship will end once death is within his grasp for real. Maybe there will be a proper farewell, a funeral and mourning in her near future.
Maybe the seasons will keep turning, and she'll witness lines form in his face as spring comes again and again. Maybe there will be houses where his art is held and treasured, but the occupants treasure their connection to the creator even more. Maybe she'll wear him down enough to get a birthday out of him, and mark it to celebrate.
No matter what kind of creature she is, existence still sings. And if it can call to her of all souls, maybe she can figure out what tune can paint stars across the empty expanse of oblivion, until the night sky hangs overhead.
Mother, let me try.
Gently, so he can reject it if he wants, she reaches to place her hand on his shoulder. An echo of her earlier action, but without the urgency, the demand. Contact for its own sake.
no subject
Cliche as it sounds, it's true. Maybe they'll fail. Maybe this companionship will end once death is within his grasp for real. Maybe there will be a proper farewell, a funeral and mourning in her near future.
Maybe the seasons will keep turning, and she'll witness lines form in his face as spring comes again and again. Maybe there will be houses where his art is held and treasured, but the occupants treasure their connection to the creator even more. Maybe she'll wear him down enough to get a birthday out of him, and mark it to celebrate.
No matter what kind of creature she is, existence still sings. And if it can call to her of all souls, maybe she can figure out what tune can paint stars across the empty expanse of oblivion, until the night sky hangs overhead.
Mother, let me try.
Gently, so he can reject it if he wants, she reaches to place her hand on his shoulder. An echo of her earlier action, but without the urgency, the demand. Contact for its own sake.