Chopin is my favorite. The first clean, clear notes like patches of light. His slender hands, the workings of each intricate joint as he plays the Nocturnes. I am content to listen and let the wanting wash over me. Cool air drifts in through the open window, the balcony door ajar, crickets chirping goodbye to summer.
A storm is a storm whether habited
in the heart or the heath.
My perfect wedding is a panoply of blood
and symbolism. At my wrists
there will be red pearls. Nobody
will dare look at me and call me bride.
Rain drenches the heath and us. I can just barely make out his face, his wide eyes, in the darkness and downpour. He's saying something about God or love but the squall drowns him out. I want more than anything to touch his face but I know he would never understand.
Please take this chalice
from me. Make me taste other things
before I drink my delusion dry.
The wolf leaves widows
in every wood but I
do not mind, I
want to wed the wolf.
His face half-shadowed. Caravaggio minus the plumes and daggers. He still hasn't noticed me looking at him. Since the events of last night on the stairwell we have not spoken, but I know what he's thinking of. Times like these his thoughts always wander to the heath again. The heath and the harsh light, the sun growing spiteful in its weakness. Like me.
I've read my fair share of folk tales.
Dead and double dead.
Eye, sea, yew.
Love is time's gravedigger--
you're standing in it.
He hardly knows who I am. I've told him almost nothing yet he does not resent me. He shivers at my least touch, gasps when I so much as stroke his hair. Leans into my hand like a stray cat. I realize I hold such power over him, this man so much taller and stronger than I. It brings me no pleasure, I tell myself.
Yes, I will wed the wolf.
I've been glutting on my own blood
for years, pretending it's someone else.
Kill for me, kill with me, kill kill kill.
It isn't goodness that makes the rain fall.