Striking azure meets striking azure; the sky, you notice, mirrors your eyes. Winds caress your body as you drift off from the ground, shooting several feet up in the air. It is rich and cool on your skin, you think, like stored birthday cake on a quaint spring day. Or the windows of a long forgotten, abandoned home- yours.
Your slender, four-foot hood whips and tails behind you so fluidly, so right, because you no longer remember when it wasn’t practically a part of you. Dew settles in your hair. It cakes your mouth. You twist and turn among the clouds. ‘Dance’, they almost seem to whisper in your ears.
Dance, little god, dance.
So you do. (In your mind, a haunting piano refrain introduces you to an audience of none.)
Leading a partner made of lies, you reminisce. Reminisce about a time when you were not a god of the sky, when you were called simply a boy and not the “Heir of Breath”, when you wore a plain shirt and short