She wore a little bird’s nest on her head - as a hat. Sometimes birds would visit but mostly it was for show. Well tended and clean —a pristine and bourgeois accessory.
He got flames tattooed across his chest. It was a statement, a remembrance. It burned -tattooing flames across his ribcage but he stuck it out. Red and raised to start, then they healed. Crimson and gold, just like he intended.
Fire isn’t something she ever could control but she always loved it, from childhood, the glow of a flame, the roar of a bonfire. Her inclination was to leap across or maybe into the white & blue center to walk across the glowing coals.
Friends and lovers weren’t something he ever really could maintain. He liked traveling, books and history. He liked ideas and inquiry, but now there was a hole, a gap, an opening left unfilled. He wasn’t hopeless, he wasn’t lost, he just envied the flame, the passion, the verve.There was no reason but there was a rhythm, a beating, throbbing, wanting that he’d read about in books but never experienced in his own body. Now he’s being taken over, consumed.