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archiveofarethusa) wrote2012-12-05 05:59 am
archiveofarethusa) wrote2012-12-05 05:59 am
The Only Exception
Cyprian loved all flowers, even the assholes. Asters were something different. Cyprian loathed silence, and if asters had ever uttered a word not even other flowers could say. They communicated in shocks of emotion and impression and spectral color.
Cyprian had asked, once, why this was so, and received a succession of images: a woman, her spine in a perfect, unnatural arc, an aster drinking up her tears. A dark, hazy sepia burning into a black than was more than black. Howling gusts, and the shape of those who were listening beyond them.
Cyprian loved all flowers. He feared for only one.
Cyprian had asked, once, why this was so, and received a succession of images: a woman, her spine in a perfect, unnatural arc, an aster drinking up her tears. A dark, hazy sepia burning into a black than was more than black. Howling gusts, and the shape of those who were listening beyond them.
Cyprian loved all flowers. He feared for only one.