romeo wilder — 4m (fin.)

district four male — eighth hunger games

{ summary }

「 vagabond 」— eighteen years of longing for a thing you have never seen. mourning shroud across your face. sand slipping through calloused hands. the sound of gulls after a storm. the sweetest song is this. harmony is the destination. wayfarer meets sunset at the edge of the world. and when it gazes at you, gaze back at it. answer when the siren calls. nothing matters more than freedom. so unfurl your fists. there's a rundown van on the clifftop where you make your home. all endings are visible when you look from that high. but the van, and you, can only go so far in your current states. like calls to like. you are a forest fire awaiting a spark. you are a traveler walking blindfolded.

「 old soul 」— the ocean is only as young as your eyes. it reflects your ambition and joy back at you. it reflects your melancholy in waves. you are a sailor. and you are marooned here. most things come to you like second nature. black cat with feline reflexes. a face so fair can only be so unlucky. you move through life like it has already wounded you. like you've listened to a mother choke on her coughs until the silence turned to static under your skin. you recall the first cry your baby sister ever made. and you remember the way she begged you not to leave when you chose to abandon your childhood home to stand all on your own. "everything will be okay," you insisted to her calmly. calamitously. the sentence is dangerous coming from your tongue. sometimes, even you believe the lie. outstretch your arms. feel the wind collecting in your palms. know that you have nothing here at the cliffside. and know peace.

「 performer 」— cleverness cuts as deep as a serrated blade. wit and wonder go hand-in-hand. the world has always sung to you, so you think it fair to sing back to it. sea meeting rock. wings meeting sky. boy meeting eternity. these are all terrible, lovely sounds. you pace on the edge of an ending. sword in your grip, guitar strings under your fingertips. if you are to have only one thing of your own, it will be this life. and if you must anguish, let it be over the knowledge that you are living willingly inside this hurt and this hunger. the fish are more likely to bite when you're crooning by the shore. people have a fondness of falling for the boy hiding behind the beautiful words. love songs and war ballads. you tell many tales within many melodies.

but this one is yours.