Even a well lit place can hide salvationIt's thirty degrees in the shade and Lochlan is throwing fire. He doesn't notice the heat. His nose and forehead are already pink along with his shoulders and the back of his neck since I put his hair in a low messy man-bun this morning and he left it like that. It has lightened to the color of polished copper. I want to keep him like this forever. If I squint he is seventeen. If I focus I still wouldn't even come close to guessing that he'll turn forty-nine later this summer. It just doesn't compute. He doesn't age. All this sun and fire and hard living (not now, I mean previous to this house) and stupid stubborn syllogism and he remains the same.
A map to a one-man maze that never sees the sun
Where the lost are the heroes and the thieves are left to drown
But everyone knows by now fairy tales are not found
I put my own hair in the same style of loose bun and he laid down his torches and came over, putting his top hat on my head. It's far too big and sits with the brim on my shoulders. I can't see. He doesn't want me to get too much sun. I don't need to see like I don't need to hear. I'll just navigate based on touch, like always.
And if he dies, I'll go with him. I already promised myself that years ago.