17 Jul 2012

Dance of the Fly and the Twig

The Fly:

She skirted around, her light feathers gently teased by the breeze.  It loved to tease her, that breeze. Blowing with just the right amount of strength. Not too strong, but not too feeble. Enough to caress her. She focused on the twig. Brown. Signified defiance. Of elements. Seasons had come and gone, the sun had shone, burnt it, and given up. It had retired dejectedly. Each morning it rose, determined to burn off the twig. Each morning the twig bowed, took the challenge. Each evening, the dance came to an end. The twig smirked. The sun darkened.

The Twig:

Many rested upon his head. Many moved on, many hang around, hoping to get more of him. He was not looking to be owned. He loved the games the sun played with him. Everyday, he shook dew off his head and smiled. Another day for a game of death.  Then he spotted her.  He had spotted many of her kind. The kind that loved to hop without purpose. The kind that flirted. The wind was playing havoc with her delicate wings. Ever so slightly, her body shivered. Yet she fluttered on. At a distance. He sought her face. He loved faces. Eyes especially. Hers, he couldn't read. See, that is how his kind communicated. Eyes.

The Fly:

She had been watching him. She was intrigued. He consumed her. This defiant twig.  He was looking at her. He was bent towards her. She wanted to assume that was the wind. The wind here was bewitched. It made her do things sometimes. Like now. She felt a tremor. Started as a tiny shiver at her antennae, and grew gradually stronger as it moved to her chest and down to her thorax. Cursed wind!  He was wise. You can tell. By the harsh lines on his face. The remnants of leaves that hang loosely by his side. The pride, the glory, the pain, the victory, the loving, the losing. All in lines like blood veins on a muscular hand. She edged closer. Intoxicating.

The Twig:

He wasn't sure he wanted her close. She looked like the type of fly that attracted trouble. The one that made birds swoop and grab. The kind that made men approach with weapons. Beautiful trouble. She was not like the rest. She was…what was that word? Captivating. Yes, that was it. He forgot the sun. Forgot that it was near midday, when the sun called for reinforcement. He was exposed. He felt the heat was coming. And for a moment, he basked in that heat. Something felt different. The heat was not from the sun. He looked up. She was right on top of him. Her heat was stronger than that of the sun. More potent.

The Fly:

She had lost the will to fight it. He beckoned. His very being summoned her. That need to connect. She was hovering. He was yearning. She wanted. He craved. She longed. He desired. Her wings became weightless. In her mind, the world collapsed into a heap on the ground next to her. How was that possible? If the world had just collapsed, what ground did it land on? Nothing made sense. Only the pull towards him existed.

The Dance of the Fly and the Twig:

She landed. He buckled. Not at her weight. At the feeling. She was home. He was complete. She belonged there. And as the sun got hotter, and he begun to wither, his life seeped out of him into her.

They were one.

2 commented:

Sergent said...

Don't mind me, am still trying to figure out if this is a euphemism for whatever is going on in my head....

Dark Angel said...

Sergent, It is and it's not. That is the beauty of it. You can make this dance be anything you want.