and yet, what are we but mere mortals somehow caught in the world's anger? what am i but just another girl weaving these words in the corners of a ceiling where the moon doesn't shine — hidden by dust and out of reach and you are a victim, walking straight to spider silk; somewhere in the sky, artemis is perched on the moon — watching, warning.
and for all we know, she knows, that apollo, too had written poems for all his lovers; i will borrow these words, fumbling to write all the things i cannot say. but in the end, how can i write about your love and its softness when all i've known are wolves and shredded baskets, when my legs are made for chasing the fog, when my hands are made for ripping red cloths and poorly folding them into roses? alas, darling, these are my pressed tulips and chaste kisses delicately folded into words. this is my testament; these are my whispers in their softest. these are my fingers in their gentlest. this is my love for you.