I lost you in my very own head. I chased your heaving breaths down corridors in my skull – I ran and I ran and I ran and I ran – but you were always just two steps too far ahead of me, just turning the corner before my feet could land on your shadow and pin you in place. You looked back once and there was a halo around you. I could smell your perfume. You turned away, ran faster, faster. I would almost catch the hem of your garment, but then it would slip though my fingers, sliding silk and traitorous lace.
I lost you in a vision that was brought on by a fever. The wallpaper of my mind was covered in markings, a mockery of your penmanship bleeding onto the carpet. Golden frames contained golden people who had no eyes, only gaping holes in the canvases that made it clear that there were monsters lurking on the other side – coming for me, coming for you and your traitorous lace. You ran from me like I was one of them. Don’t you know that I’m the one who will awaken you with a jewel-encrusted kiss? Don’t you know that I’m the hero of your story?
I lost you in the scream that never left my throat.
I am the white line that breaks the sky.
My life is but a a fraction – a split second, a half a heartbeat – but it is long enough. What I do in one moment, others would waste a decade pondering. What I break in one instant, others could spend a century building.
Forests burn and cities crumble. Animals flee, scurrying into their holes in the ground. Trees break and fall and scatter their shattered limbs across the earth. For me, the world cracks.
Exhale. I have come and gone; my fractional life is over.
The flash that haunts your mind is my ghost. The roar in your ears, my funeral.
I am the night sky. Stars burn themselves into my skin; the moon is a fickle mouth upon my chest. Opening, closing. Smiling, frowning. I am black and white.
But you are the day time, and you are constantly covered in color, color, color. Radiant reds, pastel pinks, violent violets. Brilliant oranges and soft yellows, subtle shifts from hue to hue to hue. And blues, so many blues. Blues like a robin egg’s shell, like the eyes of a child, like a polished sapphire.
You are my beginning and my end.
You welcome me with fuchsia kisses; you send me off with a crimson caress.
You deserve the dew, the breeze, the morning sun.
Those holy mornings where we would walk barefoot on the damp grass are my most cherished memories. Cool skin and cooler air, the dawn light reflecting off the droplets and making the water look like gemstones. They would cling to each blade of grass before falling like tears, evaporating into the air, or being squished beneath our toes. You would smile beneath a rose-gold sky and your eyes would glow so warmly.
You deserve countless sunrises like that. I wish I could them to you.
If I could pluck the mornings from others and bring them home to you, I would. Not all of them, of course; I would never steal all the daybreaks from one unfortunate person. I know you would never want me to be so cruel.
No, I would just take one – a single morning from everyone in the world (they wouldn’t miss just one, surely?). I would take them as gently as I could, swath their sunrise thoughts in my arms and carry them to you so tenderly. Then you would have a morning from everywhere, from north to south, from east to west.
You deserve them all.
I wish I could give them to you.
You satiate me.
You are the heavens in these skeletal arms, you are the cosmos in these shaking hands. You are saccharine starlight, so sweet, so divine, so good. I could pull the true skies apart – leave you unscathed and instead reach my talons upwards, tear open those celestial bodies and make the heavens themselves weep… but those crystalline tears would be flavorless compared to you: mere water to your liquid gold.
Everything you are consumes me… and it seems only fitting as I consume you, too.
When you’re here.
When you’re not.
Your radiant luster clings to my palms long after you’ve gone, your seductive sheen gets stuck under my nails – evidence that I’ve clawed just a bit too deeply, that I’ve taken just a bit too much.
It’s never too much.
I dip my own fingers in my mouth and taste the lingering notes of rapture.
I lick my palms clean and drink every remaining morsel of paradise.
Soon, too soon, achingly soon… my palette is cleansed, my tongue, dry.
I’m left thirsty again.
Don’t lie, it’s all right
There’s no need for truth tonight
I just want to keep painting this fragile fantasy
Don’t try, it’s all right
There’s no need for us to fight
I just want to float around in this snow globe fantasy
I’d break skies for you
Grab the heavens with my fingers, rip them open, tear the clouds
Bleed sunsets into your pretty head
Make you hear navy, taste violet, know red
I understand now
You’re an oak-aged, liquid velvet.
So robust, aromatic,
You’re made to sip,
You linger on the tongue,
Supple, smoky, slightly sweet.
Your after-taste says:
Appreciate me for the masterpiece that I am.
Then, in the space between an exhale a lifetime –
Drink from me again.
You linger on the tongue…