Swiftcurrent Creek close your pretty eyes, my butterfly

Gaze continued to light upon her own with an inexplicable intensity, studying the idiosyncrasy of her eyes as though watching shafts of liquid sunbeams, dusted in honey, pooling down from the sky to meld into a river of ice; not simply eyes. Pallid teeth crooned at the insides of his cheek, pulling and tugging at the skin lightly as he studied and thought and bathed in the silence that swathed them. Perhaps it was the ambience that submerged him so – a fathomless chasm of relentless thought, but as she began to slip words from her lips to the mist, he finally drew away his gaze and lulled himself out of the abstraction of his mind.

She’s not a ghost, he breathed humourlessly to himself in a wordless hum, attempting to shake the unwelcome feeling, but distantly he wondered of whom she reminded him. There was some vague familiarity in the hues of her pelt, but also a distinct foreignism. The duality of her gaze, near and far all the same.

“Polaris,” he repeated, murmuring into the air with a light puff of air from his jaws. “Uhm… Soltero.” A gesture to himself, shaking away the melancholic tread of contemplation before brows creased and stared toward the creek in crafted sobriety, frown ceasing to fade. She was right – he couldn’t read her, nor could he read himself. Whether or not she had intended humour in her former words, he hadn’t considered, simply glanced back and forth between herself and the rivulets along the water’s surface.

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”