Wot Quotes

she was bred in the summer, during the solstice; the longest day, the hottest day. she entered the world sunburnt, with a peeling nose and flaking scalp.

and she had never once felt the cold, burning was the default and scolding was the peak. thermometers always broke; glass in her mouth, spirits on her tongue. sometimes it hurt, and always it was exhausting.

even in the snow, stripped bare, her skin was flushed - red as an english rose, freckled and bright - she shone with perspiration; sweat trailing into the dip of her mouth, the taste bitter like acidic rain. the surface of her cheek streaked with evaporated tears.

When she cries, the room becomes oppressive - her very own amazonia, right in the heart of manáos - and I am left, stuck on the bed as i wait for the the rain to stop choking me with its humidity. She apologises so much, always with such sincerity, it leaves my throat sealed and my mouth parched like uluru during mai wiyaringkupai.

she laughs though, often and always, and these days are best. the room becomes clear, bright with a pleasant heat - a picture perfect postcard. i love her laugh, it is brash and unapologetic and it makes me feel the sun; this is gravely important, as i have never felt the heart of summer, just as she has never felt the cold embrace of winter.

i hold her hand, and it is so hot in comparison to my own, i swear i see steam emerge from the spaces between our fingers. She smiles wide and her lip cracks down the middle, as dry as paranal. i want to kiss her. i really do.

i bet she tastes like the solstice; the longest day, the hottest day.

he was cold and it sometimes hurt to touch him, he made my skin itch with the tell-tale signs of frostbite setting in and sometimes i would cringe. i never shied away though, because the pain was worth the touch, the blessing.

permanently, he was tainted blue, like lake fryxell or the Odessa sky in spring.

bundled in blankets and burning his hand with the iron, he shivered.

i loved his cheeks, they had a sign of life - they were red, blood vessels rushing to the surface - a kiss from jack frost. i was jealous.

i made him angry once and it was beautiful. snow fell from the ceiling, a blizzard in the bedroom, defying logic and reason. it did not stop for hours - it did not melt - and when his mother died; he cried, and the room cried with him - lightening and thunder; the dark roar that makes children scream and hide beneath their beds. this, too, lasted for many hours. the snow melted, and my carpet was soaked with the smell of petrichor. he apologised and i did not understand why, because i've always loved the rain - the sound, the smell, the touch, the taste.

i bet he tasted like rain.