counting stars * tallsie

when we are first conceived, in the dark warmth of our mothers' wombs, it isn't our skeletons that form first. it's our hearts. when we die, the last things we leave behind are our skeletons. when we die, the important things are not lost. we were born out of the spinal stems of the pacific, without incision to the womb; but with birthmarks on our skin. although whitesmoke failed to believe it, her mother kissed away the patches on her forehead- there were clouds inside of her ears and she heard her her mother's voice like it was a storm coming to claim her life again. but that was so many moons ago and her eyes were an artificial blue that reminded the warrior of black holes. it always hurt to look at her reflection and see her mother staring back at her.

the night was cold. it was cold and the sky was pitch black, blacker than the unconscious breath her existence takes under damp eyelids, curled tails, white memories, blush red lips unexposed by the moist air. whitesmoke moved with an unexplained dignity- a side of her that had not been shown for a couple moons since thistleclaw's death. but there it was again. the darkness. underneath the heights of her veins and in the stall in each breath she takes when the clouds pass farther and farther away from that bliss no one ever leaves with. she remembers the sloppiness of the stars, the heartbeats that disappeared into unconscious murmurings. she could almost call it existence because there is nothing else that matches that word. nothing. she left a lot of things in different places, and she's forgotten words, prey, fur, whiskers, cats, great loves. she's been told that she is like an unbroken heart, a tidal wave, a storm, a baby bird, and a broken leg- but she still tastes like the sun on someone else's back and she has written over her head in neon lights as a warning sign to others: "i have already left my smell, my taste, i am stained. run so far, far away."

and they do. she runs as well. but this time, she stops. stops with her clan in the center of fourtrees, her tail curling around her paws, keeping her stable. stable because that's what shadowclan was. stable. stable despite her father's abandonment; stable despite her mother's suicide; stable despite her brother's death the same was as her mother's; stable despite thistleclaw's death, stable despite the hunger and the fire. there was no need to worry, whitesmoke would barely speak tonight. like she barely speaks every other night. but she was here in the center of the trees, and staring at the stars as if they had answers to her questions, and does she feel like everything happens for a reason? does she believe in the intertwining of the universe, when she sees eyes in her dreams? stardust in the form of pupils, a familiar glare? yes. yes, she does. she wonders if any one else feels the same sensation upon their fur- breathe as she inhales. she cannot explain. but she feels.