Wheeling Gull Isle in the cracks of our skin there’s a memory of a dove

the child watched as her brother stood, her pale eyes blinking back the blurry filament that gathered from dreams as she watched. it was his warmth leaving her that woke her, not the sound of a storm that could prove fatal to a child of her size. she was smaller, thinner but not sickly. 

silently she watched him before she moved to his side, her body lightly brushing against his to let him know she was there. she too was curious about the colorless drops, wondering if they were cold as her side when her brother left her or as warm as their family curled together. she looked to him for a moment before training her gaze back on the storm, she would only move if he did.