then to now.
that chasm dug by hand. by my hands. my hands
scooping up the brains of the man i loved after a bullet tore through his
skull and put me out of my mind.
they were my hands, small again, gathering november leaves
for confetti. my hands.
mind had become
brain, brain became brains. brains betrayed the infinite space of me, of him.
my
own lacey thoughts and teatime notions of what would always be, what was
subject to fate and gravity -- all sent wriggling across the cosmic blackness of the car. a death
not unlike the beginnings of life.
if only we had stopped instead of creeping
forward into that impossible space. into that bubble where even the brightest stars
turn inside out.
stolen. dragged away from ever putting him back together
again. if i turned to look at him, he’d dissolve forever.
but it wasn’t his
blue remains that I tried desperately to recollect, to re-member him piece by
piece.
– this was all so terribly wrong.
it was my hands trying to quickly hide
the evidence that this man could fall, that he could break.
because then, nothing was safe.
and the world was suddenly colder. no lighthouse to bring me to shore. nothing to keep.
i could suddenly feel the pearls around my neck, perforating and pure. dressed up for our own funeral, but it was me they were burying.
because then, nothing was safe.
and the world was suddenly colder. no lighthouse to bring me to shore. nothing to keep.
i could suddenly feel the pearls around my neck, perforating and pure. dressed up for our own funeral, but it was me they were burying.
suddenly remembered the foil dinner I’d left in the microwave
for hours. the hot afternoons spent waiting, fanning, pacing. shoes left untied. babies unfed.
if only I had
hidden the pieces of him in the folds of my dress. hidden them anywhere, to sort through later, on my own.
but he was trampled under the stampede of legend. and i painted
my eyes on every day that.
after seeing his brain, his human matter, scatter as
any broken thing would – like any mangled sea star, butchered lamb or mutilated
saint would—i saw that my prince was merely mulch. only mortal debris. the champagne
firelight, the thrill from middle to middle, butterfly thrusts, bloodbaths and memos were
only there to distract me. red velvet blindfolds to hide the man from the
magic, the magic from the man.
i saw the
world differently after that. and the world saw me turn to glass.
i watched my hands, still clutching what was left of
him, begin to think and crawl and press onward, even as i looked back.
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