The sun finds them now, descended from their nest far above. The tall glass buildings mark the edges of the street, and are set aflame by the sun’s bright flares. They are permeated with the harsh burning light, and give the venue a celestial touch. Still, it is only by mere reflection that the sun meets the street, and thus the space between is left fair and warm. Splotches of wild color form opposite streams on either side of the street, many adorned with greys and blacks – a strange set of colors to hide behind. They are indefinite, just detailed enough to be recognized in peripheral vision. As always, they are not meant for focus, forgotten as soon as recognized. Perhaps they have lives and dreams, but here, from this view, they are nothing. The black streets are invisible under the multicolored mess of splotches, and the windows just above are brought to life with their reflections.
The two are found above, wings outspread, hooves relaxed underneath. Their manes and tails are tossed well by the wind, caught in wild arrangements behind them. In the midst of her curly brown locks is found the bright red feather of a phoenix, made bright by the sun’s warm rays. She has a wide smile, left open as she talks. Her eyes are filled with a love for the city, for the happy flares of sunlight that touch her feathers with muted glows. It is a city worth painting over sometime, if she can only find a point from which she could see all of it, and yet capture its unique beauty. His eyes are wide with familiar excitement, but his smile is calm, happy merely to listen. It is rare that she talks alone, but it is wonderful to listen to. The way her young voice lifts and falls, yet remains just so soft, never fails to make him smile and, somehow, demands his attention, despite its light nature.
He is happy she likes the city. At first glance, it may seem a dead, lusterless city, but it truly does have greater shades behind that make it a brilliant city. The buildings, however monotonous, find their life in reflection, taking on the color of those around. Indeed, in each building around can be found the hint of vivid blue and lovely brown smudges. They take on the sun’s light and are made bright. Though they are mimics, they add well to the heart of the city through their mimicry. Through them, the splotches below are repeated and amplified, and their colors made brighter. He has always loved the golden touch they add when the sun shines, the glow they cast upon the sky and the streets. He has not yet found a city quite like it, though Manehattan seems to approach the same medium, albeit at a faster tempo.
He doubts the two cities will ever be quite the same. He wonders if she would understand why, or if she is still feeling her way through. Her happy exclamations bring an intense joy to his face, and his heart soars. He knows not what to say back, though. He can only nod, having never talked about the love a revisiting brings. He sees a few new buildings, made taller than the others, of course. He loves those small new things, but they are well-overshadowed. He sees in the buildings their reflections, a plurality that had not been when last he visited. That makes the visit much happier. He could speak of that, he thinks. That is a wonderful subject.
She sees them too, and wonders if he will speak of them. He seems oddly quiet, all-considering. Perhaps he is deep in thought. Still, on his face is painted a smile. It occurs to her that he likes to hear her more than himself. It adds glow to her smile, and she falls even farther into love with him. It is a beautiful place, this golden venue. Would she love it so without him? She ponders the thought, but refuses it. The sun would be blinding, not golden. She has never liked the sun, but on these glassy canvasses glows a greater fire than the sun could accomplish alone. She wonders about the others below, how they can live in such a city without looking up at the reflections. They may be used to it. Perhaps that is why he is a wayfarer, so that no venue can ever become bland in his eyes, save for the sky. It makes sense, she thinks, that he should wish to outrun routine. She would like to remain here for a short while though, if only to see it all.
He wonders if she has thought about it, what they could be. Far away, he sees a horizon he has not yet explored, one he only noticed with her beside. It looks wonderful, even from here. Would she go with him? He believes so, hopes so. Had she felt it the night before, the amber glow he still yet feels, whenever he looks at her smile? If he could only ask that. Would she join him there? He wishes he could tell. Her smile may say so, he thinks. He must ask to be sure, though. How can he have her, yet feel like every moment he could lose her, perhaps to the scenery, or to the canvas. He thinks he does not deserve her.
So that is it. He is afraid because he has nothing to give her but what she can already take without him. He despises that part of himself. He always assures himself that he is poor only in the weakest of currency, but he knows that he will always be ashamed of it. He has nothing but himself, and until now, that was all he could need. Now, he must ask her.
He seems to have a question on his mind, she thinks. She wonders if he misses his feather.