The Wall you should have forgotten my name the day you heard it

— it seemed she must, though;
no matter the sweet uncertainty of this moment's worth that the wavewarden held her in; could not help the smiling, the simpering into the porcelain breadth of him; cloudy, cottony and warm, warm, warm. Beneath the tones of his tip-toeing words is the taste of a name that neither would ever  (so she thinks)  would come to know. The salt of him, ever muted by earthsmusk, loamfell; whoever this fée is, she traces listless the stout breast, the column of throat and though she would not ever be able to reach her nose to his:
"Rest well, Rusalkan,"
whisks herself from his arms, fairylight; impling; away, away, ever awaying from the warmth of male in favor for the remnants of green green green.