Flying

Flight. Mindless flight. Flight like downhill drunken sprinting, thrilling while banal, the landings sometimes marked, even brutal. But when one can fly, one does. He must. Launch himself. Even if the flight is erraticly moth-like, with too wide wings catching too much air, too large for their frame, if not it’s weight. Still, flying is efficient. It lends speed, so much so that it can very nearly place a soul in two locales at once. In the eyes of one’s prey it can seem as if he is, in fact, everywhere at once, and nowhere as well. For instance, she might see him at a party, and again lazing on a street corner, and later still find the shadow of him gazing in from her portico as she undresses. She might think it impossible, yet he remains on her mind, in it always, to the point that she cannot sleep because he is everywhere, shadowing, always with her. It is wings give this advantage. Flight.

And strength. Show-out strength. The strength to uproot trees, and to shake down barns. The physical strength to obfuscate and to quell. Deterrence through persuasion. The power to grip a horse to paralysis, to cower a wolf, and to bellow through the dripping fens and the fog of the seas and the dark of night. Heaven help me, but there is strength.

And more obviously a hunger, a need so strong, so passionately intense for the young and sweet that she relents to it, that she returns the gaze before giving herself to you, allowing you to feed, even requesting it of you, “It is ok,” she’ll whisper to the darkness. “Take what you need.”

Can you imagine a hunger that strong? You cannot, for you have not swam in these eyes.

Not yet.