Two Eyes Cenote the night does not belong to god

the figure was like a ghost.

his voice was different - not accented in the familiar way, so, accented then. noticeable. his eyes were voids, glittering like oil, and like her own.

for prayers, she corrected. better to avoid speaking of senmut, she thinks. he is precious. does this man pray? he doesn't look like the type.

the bold feelings in her body prevent her from running. wreathed in warmth and senmut, protected beneath the gaze of Nwt, she fears nothing.

i am here most nights; cataloguing the stars.