avatrice but they're both furniture tables.....
At first Ava just thinks it's just a really good day, the sun is shining at the right angle through the window that warms 3/4s of her. Her broad oak surface preens at the attention. She's always loved the way the window casts light. The slopes and curves hypnotize her.
There's something that calls to her, (the story, the mystery, the mistakes, the process,) that she loves. The arch, Ava pores over, there's a story brimming beneath the smooth glass. It vibrates at a frequency Ava can't get out of her mind. It sings to her and sometimes it drives her insane.
She wants to answer the call, to sing back but Ava is brown oak wood. She was made from the splinters of a great tree she can no longer taste. The memory lingers like a tender bruise, the taste of something greater, something familiar, but now all she can taste is herself.
She tastes like a forest fire, smokey and raw. It sits inside of her lungs smoldering, burning her up. And Ava has never known how to stop heaving.
Ava's favorite game is finding love in plain sight. She can't calm the forest fire but it's easy to pretend she isn't on fire when passion curls inside her.
She looks for lingering touches, worn away divots, the absence of dust. There's always more to it, a reason, a why, an answer that Ava seeks. (One that she doesn't want to know but seeks.)
It's been years but Ava can still feel her. She stands on 4 legs just like her but there is purpose in the way she holds space. She holds it like a museum (whereas Ava fills her lungs with as much air as she can hold).
The question itches at Ava, it paws at her chest and she's always loved to scratch. She can't find it at first, the love, the absence, the dust, the divot, it's hard. For once in her life Ava just sees a table.
And it eats at Ava, she permeates Ava’s brain like a fine layer of dust. No matter how much Ava wipes off, the dust still settles. Ava can't escape her, they've never held a conversation (but Ava has held the air in her lungs longer in hopes she could taste something different).
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(She radiates devotion, and what is devotion if not something akin to love Ava thinks.)
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