Leaning Through Silence, Torn-Tender

Two creatures stand on the edge between gravity and disappearance.

Carved from darkness, they lean towards each other not with their bodies, but with the language of gestures and tremors.

The first is restrained, with a bright hollow between its forehead and

nostrils, through which something once starry emerges. Its wings are folded, as if it has learned to fold not them, but its own sensations. Multicolored tears stream from them – heavy remnants of feelings without names.

The second is warmer, pink-red, but broken. A lunula and sharp fragments grow from its horn – a memory that tenderness always has a thorny edge. A blue starry ear

reaches out to foreign drops to confirm its own existence.

Between them – silence.

Their inclination is not an accident, but a doom.

Their tenderness is not softness, but a tearing out.

Their meeting is a slow, ritualistic convergence of two who

know: any closeness is a risk of falling apart.