After traveling through many a galaxy and taking on a variety of forms, including therianthrope, he once again became all she needed. Him as her divine sustenance was his final transmogrification. “Life always happens on a Monday…” he belted out as he descended from the sky. It was just one of the many made up songs that he sang to her every time he reappeared out of thin air, always while falling out of the sky like money.
In his most recent form he had somehow reduced the amount of oxyhemoglobin in his skin and when their pale palms touched again for the first time in centuries, she grew languid while he waxed and waned. He glimmered like a hologram, his hope inside her. Oh, how she longed to possess the same abilities to metamorphose, so that she might become any and everything he ever wanted. She would do that for him.
He whispered lyrical incantations softly into her bloodied eardrums—sacred combinations of comedy/tragedy/pleasure/pain that had been handed down to him by those who came before him. Throughout time he had been many men; to her, and to others. His entire existence was a dance, with feet that moved wildly to the beat of every drummer. Rhythmic throes and gyrations meant to mesmerize the entire audience (population) but still, she managed to always feel alone in these clustered crowds, with a spotlight around her heart, his hope hard in her trembling tattooed hands.
In the beginning it was always them, and in the end, it will be them again. Lost and penniless, in trains and across oceans, stopping only briefly to glance at Austria, Greenland, Madagascar. They will be one and the same; beautiful imperfect beings, with his legions of followers trailing loudly behind them. So loud but she wont hear a sound. She wont hear a sound because her heartbeat will be in her face and because his love is fucking deafening. His love is lightning quick and deliberate, with sharp, powerful blows that will rain across her entire life until it swells shut, trapping him inside forever—so black and blue and tender.
