7the heart's pawn-shop
As the candle's wax drips rhythmically off its stone pillar, the owl sings out to the moon. The night air is becoming old and the lace curtains sag under the grey mist of the evening. She sits dreamily by the bedpost twirling her golden hair through her over manecured fingertip. The cool spirits of the stars cannot calm her – her mind causes headache as she puzzles through the many questions facing her. The eyes begin to spin; her heart can't stay in focus. An exasperated breath exits her open mouth, which is returned with the cold breeze from the tall window.
Deep in the darkest dungeon of the night, he but a beggar lies restlessly with but the same questions haunting him. His trauma is only settled by the sweet dandelion scent that comes from the flower he picked from under her step. They feel a mile apart, as though they've barely met. They feel so close together, pushed towards each other by love.
And as the love – a painful distressing thing; so far from being sweet, pains them into the night, Day will come when the candle will neither drip nor flicker no longer. And one can only wonder what will come next for two exhausted hearts.