Falling ash and Scheming stars

Love, tell me what metal are you made of?
Well you must be from some scheming star.
- Everly, Scheming Star.

For a week it has been as blue as summer, that honeyed sun sprinkling freckles across my skin, the wind blowing soft and slow from the east; promises, promises... That ash is falling unseen until there is a diamond shine on everything and the gulls fly inland calling out in the otherwise still air, trouble following not far behind. And yet despite the disruption I can't help but marvel, the world is vast once more; the distances between not mere finger-lenghts or hours, but days and adventures, that ocean is dark and cold and deep and love less easily proven...

For college I'm still scribbling and gathering; I always have blue ink on my fingers and on pages and blue thread tangled up in knots. I've been questioning and determining irrational characteristics, personifying the tales and superstitions and finding the core of how they, or perhaps how I, tick... I need pebbles, pure white and smooth and bones, chalky and bound, red silk and playing cards, blue china the colour of truth and waves and brambles once they've greened. They sit on shelves and lie scattered across my desk, and some midnight, when that clock with no swing decides to chime, I'm certain they'll transform into beauty and narrative...

Today I still have sand in my shoes and that thread in my pocket, I love eyes the colour of the ocean and anyone who brings me cake. I love sparklers; burning like stars in my hand and tea after midnight. I love laughter and truth and men with paint on their fingers, and as always I hate decisions left unmade. Today the woman I want to be, laughs more and gets up early, she plays music through the house; soft and low. She loves easily and compliments never make her stall... Someday.