Mystzunel Ablution

There, where energy pools thick - thick like blood, like honey, like the space between thoughts. She descends. Down where the earth pulses. Her fingers know the way to the sacred seeds, though the knowing burns.

The plants… they whisper. They whisper of depths and the soft places where light has never been. Each seed a small eternity. Each harvest a small sacrifice.

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brew. brew. brew.

The water speaks to the ground flesh. Steam rises in spirals that spell names in languages the throat cannot hold. She drinks.

```

falls

inward

through herself

through the self beneath the self

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Until she is floating in the dark between stars, in the dark between heartbeats, and the darkness is alive and it knows her name before she remembers having one.

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But there is another way.

She takes the sacred dust, grinds it with oils that smell of forgotten planes. The paste moves under her fingers like something kife-gifted. She spreads it across skin - temple, cheek, the hollow of throat where pulse lives.

The mixture drinks weariness. Drinks worry. Drinks the small griefs that accumulate like dust in corners of the soul.

What remains: luminescence. What remains: the face beneath the face, soft and strange and beautiful in ways that have no words.

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They sit in the breathing dark. Faces glowing. The brew cooling between them, a shared sanctity.

Somewhere, there, where they will never see, new seeds dream themselves into existence. The plants whisper to each other in the language of roots and reaching.

And the darkness remembers

It remembers everything.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​