i will die on this hill.

a lithe figure stands under
the muted summer light.

a flight of arrows —
of betrayal you never see coming
until it sinks into your skin
and chews — marks the flesh
with the memory of
all her sultry kisses,
lingering in the air.

i can still see the traces
of her claw marks — pained. soft. desperate.
all over you, like remanent scars,
like a foreign queen to the royal seat.
where do i lay my love, then,
among all these tainted spaces?
where do i carve my name
and bless it with your daybreak stillness,
your midnight voice?

each hand gesture
is met with an arrow — a memory, catapulting;
a music box of your songs.
the haunting whispers of a ghost
in rust shirt and apricot sheets

i will die on this hill,
by these hands i've never felt:
the goddess
of ******* archery.
still, an arrow is nothing
but a cheap, clandestine shot.

they keep coming,
but the sunset is above me.
the flowers, on my side;

they know of this hurting.
they know these arrow wounds.