Ink I Bleed

second

One day before. Flesh, soft and pure, between your teeth. Your pearly white tips sliced through skin and the salty-sweet tang of the perfect juice burst upon your taste buds, ready to age into the finest of wines. Whether her lips or pomegranate seeds were rolling on your tongue is unknown to you for all you could feel, all you could think of was the pristine beauty in your lap, the pristine beauty around you. Then she was gone.

My Lord, my King. My Lord, my King, am I your queen?

Two days before. Hushed words gasped from her quivering lips. Your hands roaming her thighs, her smooth russet skin, her gracious curves, or the impeccable shape of a fruit. The taste of her blood, her tears, her sweat, or the sweet nectar of a fruit.

My Lord, my King. My Lord, my King, am I your queen?

Three days before. Bitterness. Withdrawal. Sour tastes on your tongue. The fruit's face puckered into a scowl brought that to you, but it was alive. More alive than before. And it was on the brim of blooming.

My Lord, my King. My Lord, my King, am I your queen?

Four days before. She was an apple fallen too far from the tree. And right into your domain. A youthful sun in the darkness of your kingdom.

My Lord, my King. My Lord, my King, am I your queen?

Today. A King. A Lord. Sitting upon a throne of rotting bones with a crown of broken souls set upon ebony locks. Waiting for the seasons to end. Waiting to see her once again. Am I your queen? Words rising and falling like the tide with each of the four pomegranate seeds you suck dry. Memories of her voice, of her veins throbbing under the tips of your teeth, of her whole presence, of how alive she was. Am I your queen?

You are Hades. Lord of the Dead. And she is Kore. She is Persephone.

My Lord, my King. Am I your queen?

My dear Kore. My love, my sweet, my life. You are my reckoning.