Desreal: and the smell of a sound;

Even if those foolish ones find themselves and return, they are never again right in their heads.
She rubs her face against his fur; they fall apart into separate beings that breath and beat caged hearts - birds - against their breasts. Confusion mounts in her; his smell is of mountains and pines and she longs to go there.

Once, boundaries did not stop her.
Boundaries stop her now.

Her face leans into his mountain-musk and she inhales deeply of it; smiling sadly as she meets his gaze with eyes that belong entirely in an animal’s face: their shared humanity - that thing that gives them reason and speech - is gone from her and she bends to the grass and scoops up a mouthful of dirt that blackens her teeth.

“Was.” she corrects in a breath that escapes through her teeth; she shivers and curves into him, a small moon of a mare. “Acacia.” her name is a soft thistle in the night that sings and stings of heartache and longing. She forgets - not her lover’s red face that shines of autumn leaf and blood but forgets her place and forgets the meaning of boundaries.

“You smell of herd - of belonging.” she says meekly; afraid of those scents that are beginning to trap and tame her wild smell of wandering.