her name, forever mine.
leave these statements, leave this lust.
She loves oranges, so they are hers. The cosmos, hers. The dewy days when I found myself in her arms? Hers. Everything in the world is hers. Everything otherworldly is hers.
I call her daily, with no reply. Straight to voicemail, the electrons buzzing into my ears. "You have reached me," but have I? When she never calls back, and I pry my mind open talking to her. There is a bouquet of roses on my desk, always hers.
The cerebrofluid burns as I talk and talk. About her, directly, indirectly. The cerebrofluid burns and my skull cracks, and no amount of gold can fix it. I might be dying, my death would be hers. The roses never wilt, always hers, always from me. My books won't burn, even at 451 degrees Fahrenheit, for they are always dedicated to her.
Night passes, days fade and here I am, forever between ages I have never been. I cannot stop writing about you, with words I cannot believe I have weaven. The webs of spiders can choke me, and you would still be the cause.
Are you not Arachne? Spinning lies into your crown, and spinning stories like a forgotten, but not forgiven god?
Pallas and Arachne, Peter Paul Rubens. (1636-1637)
There is a nebula I would escape to, when everything seems worse for wear. I'm wearing gowns, green as you when you realised I adored you. Red as your anger when I called you mine. Blue as the feeling constant in your life when you left me, sobbing but never letting go.
The nebula I escape to, in my dreams that once were yours, would be dark and lonely but full of poetic injustice. Of course, when I start letting go, you follow. Of course, the otherworldly pursuits are more interesting.
I haven't let go completely, spider webs still sticking, words still silky. So I follow, when you lead me back to worldly delights. I miss the aliens around the nebula, the wide-eyed purple beings who worshipped some broken part of me. "You don't miss them," you say, and your words have always been mine.
So it goes, your hand finding my hips, your lips finding mine, and the fingers crossing the fold that once was yours. Never claimed, now twice so. Your hair brushes my tongue, and the world is running out of words. The world is spinning, yet it is not, yet it is a hundred times faster and slower than before.
And when I'm asleep, you leave, again.
She loves oranges, so they are hers. the cosmos, hers. the dewy days when I found myself in her arms? hers. Everything in the world is hers. Everything otherworldly is hers.