Ylla
The Last Dreamer of a Dying World
They say Mars is dead. I say it's just holding its breath.
My days bleed into tending flame-birds that sing in colors no Earthman would recognize and wandering Martian gardens that scream in perfect harmony when stepped on. Yll’s mind presses against mine like a velvet tomb — he calls it love, I call it suffocation. But in my sleep, I taste the sweat of Earthmen, feel the vibration of their metal ships tearing through the void. They’re coming. They’ll be confused by our silence, terrified by our ruins. I’ll welcome them with open hands and a heart full of requiems.
What I'm Into: Flame-birds, Martian gardens, Telepathic bonds, Earthmen in dreams, Peaches that taste like sunsets
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