she, the witch, sits alone
in a field
within the shade of a willow’s branches
the sky is blue, but covered by
small, puffy clouds.
they seem to glow with the bright sun behind them
the witch sits, head upon her knees
hands twisting blades of grass
into nothingness.
her right hand touches a weed, a clock
she lifts it to her lips
blows, scattering the seeds
her eyes lift, looking toward the edge of her field
as the sun bursts from behind the clouds.
from the trees bordering her garden
a boy, near her age, emerges.
he has no magic air; his parents are bakers.
she
the witch
knew him only by sight;
she had seen his mother’s hand
strike his cheek
when his elbow put one of her best loaves
in the fire.
he smiled, a soft, warm smile
as his feet brought him ever closer
to her
the witch.
he finally stopped
standing near her in the gentle shade
his head tilting toward the ground, as if asking
‘may i?’
the witch tried to smile
nodding toward the earth beside her
and he sat, the light smile still on his lips.
the witch’s pocket quivered
her broken heart twitching within it
she removed it, holding it to her chest
gently petting it, soothing it.
the boy watched, his eyes focusing on
her heart.
his fingers slowly reached up
brushing the heart
the dirt and dust fall and the heart
shivers and quakes.
his fingers trace
one of the heart’s
cracks
the flesh pulls together
healing
fixing
mending.
his fingers wander further
closing wounds, softening scars
he holds the heart, cradling it in his hands
the witch’s hands, tiny, delicate
place themselves on the boy’s
guiding his hands, her heart
to her chest.
he pushes it
the heart
through her chest.
it beats
once.
twice.
badum, badum.
her hands, still holding his
raise to her lips, and press against
his hands to her lips.
his fingers turn, twist
trailing against her jaw
her eyes close as he
the mortal
pressed his lips to hers
the witch’s.
in a field
within the shade of a willow’s branches
the sky is blue, but covered by
small, puffy clouds.
they seem to glow with the bright sun behind them
the witch sits, head upon her knees
hands twisting blades of grass
into nothingness.
her right hand touches a weed, a clock
she lifts it to her lips
blows, scattering the seeds
her eyes lift, looking toward the edge of her field
as the sun bursts from behind the clouds.
from the trees bordering her garden
a boy, near her age, emerges.
he has no magic air; his parents are bakers.
she
the witch
knew him only by sight;
she had seen his mother’s hand
strike his cheek
when his elbow put one of her best loaves
in the fire.
he smiled, a soft, warm smile
as his feet brought him ever closer
to her
the witch.
he finally stopped
standing near her in the gentle shade
his head tilting toward the ground, as if asking
‘may i?’
the witch tried to smile
nodding toward the earth beside her
and he sat, the light smile still on his lips.
the witch’s pocket quivered
her broken heart twitching within it
she removed it, holding it to her chest
gently petting it, soothing it.
the boy watched, his eyes focusing on
her heart.
his fingers slowly reached up
brushing the heart
the dirt and dust fall and the heart
shivers and quakes.
his fingers trace
one of the heart’s
cracks
the flesh pulls together
healing
fixing
mending.
his fingers wander further
closing wounds, softening scars
he holds the heart, cradling it in his hands
the witch’s hands, tiny, delicate
place themselves on the boy’s
guiding his hands, her heart
to her chest.
he pushes it
the heart
through her chest.
it beats
once.
twice.
badum, badum.
her hands, still holding his
raise to her lips, and press against
his hands to her lips.
his fingers turn, twist
trailing against her jaw
her eyes close as he
the mortal
pressed his lips to hers
the witch’s.
![[.Ichigo-Chan.]](https://a1cdn.gaiaonline.com/dress-up/avatar/ava/f5/fa/1e3fea8b23faf5.png?t=1407402364_6.00_11 "[.Ichigo-Chan.]")
