“Where are you going?”
He stopped. Beneath the malevolent black of hooves, the first flowers of spring withered and curled, dying slow deaths like charred ashes.
“Where I go.”
“Where is that?”
Horns pierced the air, a cruel collection of desert-bleached bones.
“I go down into deepest sleep.”
“But where is that?”
His eyes narrowed, dead the way the hopeless remnants of leaves cling to winter-cold branches.
“Down.” His voice was what trees must have sounded like as they grew, a low, deep rumbling. “Down in you, where you are quiet and small.”
Slow-boat show-boat approach, heat baked from his flanks like a man with fever, tar-black eyes amazingly bright on her. “I have been in you a thousand times. Every night you sleep, I am in the deepest core of you.”
“Is that a lie?” She asked, taking in a deep breath. He smelled of rot – a sweet smell, like bananas that have sat out too long.
“Do you want it to be..?“