by ~Anatopist

Her mind is a hummingbird and her irises are wings, flitting
from point to point, a shrill whistle coming from lips, overflowing
with lily-nectar. There are bare brick roads beneath her feet but she
does not notice. Birds don’t need feet. She is a bird. Small, light,
the girl with stars in her eyes who sees herself with peacock feathers
tucked into her pockets.

His thoughts are neat little boxes and the hummingbird has unpacked
them with frantic fluttering. He is more of a stoic magpie, the sort
who is labelled as ‘sorrow’ but will still sing a song for those who
recoil in the hope he can reunite Pangaea. He is, nonetheless,
distr

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