MY LADY

the star-plated dreams of youth

i want to rest in the cradle of your arms. in the slipping shade, slumber will soften our sharp angles and unspoken words, and confession will flow sweet, tempestuous in their fervor, dams breaking loose, spilling shredded heartstrings. i will twist your locks in between my fingers like spider silk, and watch your chesire grin curl unbidden over the languid lines of your mouth, as you try to hide the quirk of your lips which i have already glimpsed. you will raise a hand to the heavens, watching the dappled sun beams caress your palm, glancing over the fate-lines etched there.

i wish i could fly into the soft slivers of the paradise we had built for ourselves there. where we lay together, two slices of eternity, unable to be confined in mortal shells. when you pushed your maraschino syrup lips to mine, and colored me in the carmine gloss of your love. when i danced my fingers across your cheek and teased you until you turned the color of crushed pink roses, the delicate flush marbling and spreading under the gossamer porcelain of your skin. alas! we can never go back there again.

the force of your teeth as you tugged on my bottom lip was torturous, coloring the dark space behind my eyelids bright scarlet and florid saffron, bursting and blooming in sparks across my vision. my hands, so, so tender, clasped the thin columns of your wrists, and I remember the fragile bones and flesh, warm and alive, pulsing with the pumps of your heart, under my fingertips. when you were overcome, trembling, you pressed your forehead to my collarbone, and whispered prayers, invocations, curses. i wish they had worked.

i go to our little meadow every now and then. when my nine to five becomes unbearable and the need to escape chafes and claws up my chest, burning my throat, to leave a bitter taste in my mouth. when the memories of you are too pressing to ignore. when I can't press you into the neat little box labeled "don't touch!!!" in my head. that's when i lean back and think of sugared plums and sour spritzers and the bubbly, buoyant feeling of your breath on my thigh as you pillowed your head there. and i am instantly there.

more than anything, I hate the rationale behind your absence. by all means, it was logical. we didn't work anymore. we were too big to fit into each others' lives, all cramped ankles and rubbing elbows and breathless panting. so we packed up the remnants of each other which we had strewn haphazardly, when we were all too willing to spread to each others' spaces, claiming each other by measuring how much of ourselves we could insert into each others' everyday. a question of "how much can i sink my fingers into, so they will remember me when they touch this or think of this?" invading and peppering a life with your memorabilia is easy. cleaning up the mess left behind, from when we were too reckless to care, is another story.

i wish it would have hurt you to leave, like it hurt me. i wish you had screamed and cried and languished, afterwards. but you were so clinical. almost sterile, the way you detached. terminate contact, retrieve belongings, exit with haste. while you were walking out, you brushed the back of your hand against my cheek. it must have seemed reassuring to you. a little comfort to leave me with. but it didn't. do you know why? it's because it was a little parody, the way you touched so casually, so effortlessly. like it meant nothing. it made me feel like screaming. i felt hollow, like those russian nesting dolls, with pretty smiling faces and empty caverns inside.

do you dream of me, like i dream of you? do i visit your thoughts, like a fairy or butterfly, invading your aches with a sigh or a kiss, making it all better? probably not. i think i'm pathetic, for hanging onto you, when you discarded me so long ago. maybe it was all a sickly fever-dream.