Sawtooth Spire Here are the holy birds

With every word he is absorbed, attentive sunlight on cool eyes that speak of pain. Like a vaulted cathedral his shoulders arch high and ornate, a lowered head pressing into the intimate space between them. A pool of moonlight in which to unearth hidden skeletons.

“Do you desire truth?” Comes the question in a hush, spilling into her ear. “All of me.”

A shatter of laughter. His mouth hinges, teeth brandish the moon, a prominent hymn born from midnight lips raises high. “Rejoice! There is no despair. This is evolution to something other.”

His voice is loud, commanding- this he shares with the mountain. And then quieter, “But you keep yourself; even in death. All the parts that fueled you in life.”