Sway your arms to caress me
with asphalt,
cement,
your nails -
the sound of your heels are rapid hooves, fast approaching
my tail,
the dying heart of your ember cord.

Remember the day you promised to protect me?

Now we run.
Ever pacing the summer breeze.

Beasts.
Wildlings in the shade.
Ever the prey across the grey ocean of shame.

Sometimes, while I walk,
I like to close my eyes.
Immediately, I find myself in a space in which only
the echo of my footsteps can be heard,
and my only guidance is the vibration it leaves behind.
At times, the vibration ceases - I am foliage swaying with the breeze -
and the only reason I keep moving is a need to break for utter silence.

You have wild flames in your eyes,
And yet you swim in deep waters at night.
What is it then you seek in the dark, while this fire burns within you?
 - I know not of seeking; I was simply born in the cold, amidst pale winds and white giants.

My legs have shortened,
as my breath and the grass. 

I can close my eyes and see the trees,
the pathways in between the trunks;
I can smell the water in the river bank,
the cold metal links on the bridge. 

I can not hide.
I cannot.

There is a shimmering hope
in between the shades -
it shines through, then goes opaque,
like lazy foliage through a window on a breezy Summer afternoon.

I can't run -
the truth is
I can't.

The pain has caught up with me,
and my legs are not long enough.

I cannot run away.
I cannot let it go under my feet as I gain distance.
I cannot run this over.

I cannot feel the sun. 

The dreams have returned.
Cold dreams.
Grey dreams.
Uncertain and full of possibilities,
though not infinite -
they are confined to one place, many spaces sprouting out of the same 
foundation:
an old cathedral;
century-old lakes, rivers, and grass and wood;
the ever-rotatory skies;
the repetitive sound of leather soles on asphalt,
on mushy mud,
on snow -
slow steps,
panting steps - 
at times lonely, at times besides hers.

Which wings, whether metal or feathery,
bring me forth to these northern skies this time
to face the aged stone,
the ragged fabric,
a passing starry-eyed crowd,
and the bridges of foamy clouds?

"She's like fire."

"Except she's ice."