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snapshot of motion
Jul. 4th, 2007 02:04 pmBefore everything, there is the tragedy of motion.
Reflectively, Lamia passes over the bridge where the troll once lived, damp and desperate, ears pricked to the tramping of feet and laughter-- but now he's dead, and the bridge is unguarded. There is a difference, she thinks, between moving and being moved, and no one acknowledges it.
She moves through the warmth of a man walking home from his shop, whistling "Blow the Man Down" under his breath, who stops when he sees her to stare, then takes up his song again.
I am in motion, she says, but not loudly enough for him to understand, unless he's listening. And you are letting me move through you.
But who listens? He only cares about the luscious darkness in her eyes, or the curve to her hips as she smiles at him. Lamia comes close, looking at his ardor, caressing his bright, lustful cheeks.
"Please, share some of your warmth with me," she says, because she's cold, and she knows he will. The man starts, and stares again. She laughs, sweet and breezy, like the notes of a flute rising from the belly of the orchestra.
Eventually, she takes his heart, and his warmth, and even his song. She swallows them up. (And who is surprised? Even the troll knows there are some things which can't be changed.)
Reflectively, Lamia passes over the bridge where the troll once lived, damp and desperate, ears pricked to the tramping of feet and laughter-- but now he's dead, and the bridge is unguarded. There is a difference, she thinks, between moving and being moved, and no one acknowledges it.
She moves through the warmth of a man walking home from his shop, whistling "Blow the Man Down" under his breath, who stops when he sees her to stare, then takes up his song again.
I am in motion, she says, but not loudly enough for him to understand, unless he's listening. And you are letting me move through you.
But who listens? He only cares about the luscious darkness in her eyes, or the curve to her hips as she smiles at him. Lamia comes close, looking at his ardor, caressing his bright, lustful cheeks.
"Please, share some of your warmth with me," she says, because she's cold, and she knows he will. The man starts, and stares again. She laughs, sweet and breezy, like the notes of a flute rising from the belly of the orchestra.
Eventually, she takes his heart, and his warmth, and even his song. She swallows them up. (And who is surprised? Even the troll knows there are some things which can't be changed.)
