to someone from a warm climate — mateo & vin / d4

the canary bird sings in twelve.

on and on. Roe falls asleep in late afternoon. tiny bird, it holds all its capacity in its cage.

maybe, this is what they call faith. the not knowing, the continuing. it never stops, sound in my ears, pared like with a knife. cut to the bone at my nape.

Mateo sits on the other side of the room. long and liquid, his shadow moves on the wall.

i touch his shoulder. the bird sings.

"let's go."

𓅪

we walk onto the cliffs over the ocean.

there is the day moon. once in the early morning. once in early evening. the sun begins to set.

it is not like seven. at home, the branches of trees make branches of light, broken over the landscapes. here, water stretches on forever. i could become sunblind, staring at the oranges and yellows in the waves. all the clouds burn too. the sand turns gold beneath us, then umber.

funny. all my childhood, i wanted to leave the forest. wanted to see the ocean.

now, i do. the first time, the last time.

the tides wash like breathing, on the shore they whisper. old tongue, another language. sea foam. we sit to watch the sun pool into the water. of salt, i taste it in the air, the grainy sun.

it isn't real. it is all i will have.

i turn to Mateo.

he looks better in light, i think.

avian, the shadows settle, pull at his edges. you almost died, this is the unsaid thing in my chest.

i dreamed of it for nights after i met him. the candle was pure, the raven croaked in the scent of his blood. long, aching agonies. dreamed of all the birds that would pull at his hair, for their homes, in the downy softness of death.

something i know, the raven says.

his eyes are lit by sun.

you almost died.

"you okay?"