the tide caller | basil+audria | [florence]

have you ever had a dream that you could fly?
i have.
i could feel the wind whispering in my ears,
feel it rushing between my fingers.
and the wings.
the beautiful golden and white feathers
that were softer than any of the clouds that i burst through.
i thought i was invincible.
i could stare into the face of the sun and not fall to ash.
i could grow into places where people did not expect me,
i could feel the bite of every tongue in this nation
and i could've sworn i heard the mountains whispering to me too.
i was finally seeing the stars like i always hoped to.
like haia always hoped to.
but you see the thing
is that by the
time you finally see
the light
it
has
already
died.
and when things start to die
the whole world that had come to be around that those things
they would die too
and this world was no longer poetic,
and the wax holding my wings was beginning to melt
and the clouds were beginning to taste
like something bitter
and i was falling
falling
fall-
i hit the ground.
and then i woke up.

***

How pathetic was it, that all my dreams end in terror? That is, if I can even call them dreams. (are dreams supposed to end with your mouth tasting of blood and your whole body numb and every trace of color faded away?) Where have the happily ever afters been stashed away, and how many do I have to spare? I'd certainly like to see one of these tales end with the protagonist actually getting what they want. (I suppose Haia got what she wanted, though.)
I think that when you die, the people who love you adopt your scars. One for mama, one for papa, one for Auntie Lou - you'd find them under pinky fingers, inside thighs, and all across faces. (un)lucky for me, I got two. One on my chest, one on my stomach. I guess Haia was feeling rather generous in the will she never wrote.
This morning, I had a sweet roll trapped between my teeth, and the heat was nipping fiercely at my tongue. I sharply tugged at the sleeves of my too-big jacket, willing my skin to stop itching. It had been an uncomfortable evening the night before, and I was not in the mood to sit at the table with my family this morning. The tension had left me scratching at my skin all night, and now an entire mountain range had formed on my arms. I hadn't told them good morning before I left home; they never took the time to acknowledge my formalities anyways. Edgar used to, but that was then.
I hadn't been to the docks in a long time. I would kick off my shoes and sit at the edge, watching the waves run their fingers up and down long brown legs before retreating. Such teases, they were.
A sudden projectile coming my way made me jump, and an old, waterlogged boot landed behind me. There was a girl sitting on the dock, lazily propping her head up with one hand, and holding a fishing pole with the other. She looked to be my age, or younger. As I got closer to her, I could hear her mumbling something about cliches.

"You know what would've been cliche?" I said drily, kneeling down beside her. "If you had just hit me with that old boot."