You offered me your body,
I offered in return:

A tuna fish sandwich,
A nice piece of carnelian,
Maybe a book or two about odd things
like death by electrocution or Leonardo da Vinci
or the history of the upright bass,
Endless records,
Enough jazz to paint the world blue,
My mouth forming the shapes of notes,
A breath from my own lungs,
The scarf which was lovingly knit for me
by my one remaining friend,
Lipstick, bright red and smooth,
Feathers from a hawk that I found by the road,
Dried pink roses from a corsage,
Two baby teeth in a container that once held film,
Hair shorn with a dull kitchen knife,
A collar of cracked burgundy leather,
Sachets smelling faintly of lavender,
A mirror which was cracked on my thirteenth birthday,
One lace glove.

Why did you leave?

A new refrain,
something fresh for the tongue.
A bright lemon in the wake of
chocolate
and chilis.
Something softer,
less harsh.
Not quite sweet.
I could never stand saccharine sentiment.
Not too sour,
acid leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
Not ice cream.
Italian ice while walking the streets of Venice,
smiling and nodding at the men whose words we can’t understand.

Admetus swallowed the sun.
His throat was raw, tongue heavy with words.
Words of praise, of worship,
but the sun refuted him.
His light was dimmed,
hidden by dirt and muck, things he chose.
He seemed more human than God,
and Admetus loved him for it.
Still, the sun shows affection by shining brightly.
He glinted off coins, off crown, off sparkling seas.
He crested the horizon, casting shadows.
He shone on Admetus,
illuminating,
reflecting the deep bronze of his skin,
the curve of his spine,
the length of his fingers,
the line of his waist,
the tip of his tongue as it passed his lips,
the shadow of hair on his jaw,
the ridge of his calf.
He seemed more God than human,
and the sun loved him for it.
He fought for Admetus,
gave him all he wanted,
and took what he too desired.
But still, the sun is eternal.
Man is finite.
The sun shone on Admetus for as long as he could,
longer than he should have,
stealing back time from the grasp of silver scissors.
But it was not enough.
And when Admetus’ time came,
the sun was dim.
The twilight fell upon the world,
and the darkness seemed to last for an eternity,
though it is not told in story or verse.
Admetus swallowed the sun,
his body warm,
his eyes bright,
his fingers spread.
And then the sun swallowed him whole.

When I hear your voice,
I feel like I'm feeling.
I am no longer numb.
It isn't quite joy.
It isn't quite anger.
It isn't my righteous indignation.
I feel like I might be me.
I might be something similar.
When I watch your hands,
they look warm,
I want to sing with you.
I don't know the words,
my hands don't.
But I wish to silence my tongue,
speak with fingers.
Soon, I will no longer hear,
so I must learn to sing without a voice,
paint words with steady hands.
Mine shake,
timid and frightened to convey
what my lips cannot,
vibrations slightly off from the violin.
You instruct me how to feel,
how to not feel and gain substance.

From black to thinning darkness brings
a golden fire,
a ring of brightness amidst the grey,
unhinged jaws,
iridescence.
I grow and grow, unlike tree, unlike living beast,
like a mountain, cold and unmoving.
I rumble like a volcano, a laugh to rival the Gods'.
They make creation,
I make destruction.
I form chaos with my claws, rip richness from earth,
from open graves, from open ribs.
I drink the body's wine, dripping from lips, sizzling on skin.
Smoke rises, obscures slitted eyes.
Serpens, adored;
a symbol.
Emblazoned, glittering,
golden against the silken sky of night.
Out from thinning black, the light of the sun.

You don't see me.
You never see.
I do.
My eyes roam your curves,
fingers reaching,
never quite touching.
I wax poetic about your lips,
your tongue as it sweeps pink skin.
You see me then.
You know, and you tease,
rough leather around my throat.
You purr in my ear, and it echoes.
I still think about you,
constantly.
I miss you,
ache for you.
My eyes seek you out from miles away.
But do you remember me?
Do you see me?
Because I seek you out.
Because I see you.

I died for you many times,
blood spilled on more than one occasion.
I could list the times you stole my breath.
With your fingers in my hair, tangled,
I hated my curls.
You called me dearest.
Did you mean it?
You invited me in.
Did she want it?
I was cold. You were warm.
Did you feel it?
In the frost-bitten autumn, lips turning blue
from the cold,
from your kisses,
there was blood on the grass,
shrapnel in your heart.
You worry me.
You don't sleep.
Ink stains your hands like
mud from the battlefield.
It stains your soul,
hides your desires,
murky as the dangerous sea.
Sometimes when you kiss me
it tastes like salt water,
feels like lightning,
gale force winds.
I am not a hurricane.
I could never hurt you.
But I did.
My breath stopped in my lungs,
eyes fixed on yours.
My breath stopped in my lungs,
your hands traveling.
My breath stopped in my lungs,
a bullet in his side.
My breath stopped in my lungs,
the world changed forever.
My breath stopped in my lungs,
you walking away from me, to her.
My breath stopped forever.
You wish my blood would stain your hands,
that you could have been close enough,
that you could have protected the part of yourself that resided in me.
Your breath stopped in your lungs.
I died for you, one final time,
blood spilled on one final occasion.
They stole my breath.
I hated my curls,
but I loved you.