test: apollo spills his heart to kassandra, and it's so very messy

You keep watching me, and you're always wondering if I'm stuck in between worlds, if the one who wrote on my skin before you left permanent marks on my heart, and I'm always wondering if falling into the world by falling through a body until its destiny is written on my skin is what I am born to do, and nothing personal.  I'm trying to hide these marks in the dark, the scars that match, the scars that rise whenever the temperature changes, and rise to the surface whenever I might hear her name.  I wish I could forget her name, but I hear her name all the time, and her name is as old as yours, old enough that you could be cousins. And after all this time, I forgot that I was a mirror and you were a mirror, and when you were watching me, you were watching you, because you never got over her, and you were watching me because you were wondering what happens when you don't let go.  What happens when you decide to stay stuck in time, but then time happens anyway.  What happens when things that are supposed to happen happen next.  And I didn't find you in the dark out of despair, because I wanted to find something anything that would take this away, I was resolved to keep it in my pocket and move into a world where she did not hear me, when I tapped the surface of the pond sending her signals, she wouldn't be able to read them any more, and somewhere in that moment when I decided this was no longer even possible, it started to make sense, that the one who haunts the cemetery and carries the dead away, she was there behind everything that was good, and everything was bad, and everything that I would want to lose, and everything that was lost.  And then she becomes her, and then you become her, and everyone I ever loved and ever will love becomes her, and nothing is lost but everything is lost, and everyone I could ever love will eventually be lost, but if you are her, then nothing is ever lost.  And we'll meet again, eventually, under the ground when we meet the worms, or we'll meet in this world, in some small sad cafe where we are always grey and raining, but we're always on the verge of meeting again, and the grey becomes part of the conditions that make up a life in a body.  And this is when it starts to turn, this is the time when these lunar cycles begin to carry a kind of weight that we didn't expect, and you begin to see that the body that you move, like a horse, in the dark, becomes a body that carries a destiny, and that these movements are a part of that.  Your fingers drawing lines on my back rewrite me by inscribing one of the oldest stories in the world, one that is our story and not ours, because it's too old to belong to us alone.  And your teeth on my shoulder talk to my teeth in your ear, and I can't always see you when your eyes are filling up with ghosts that can only get released by tears.  We pour these fluids into each others' throats, over bellies and expel them into black cloth that absorbs and reflects everything that we are up until this moment.  Excess and expenditure mark time passing, and mark the movemenbts of the heart, turning with the grace and hunger of pelvic bones, and the chalk lines that protect our ribs from the whims of strangers who don't know a thing about destiny.  And your movements across my lap, riding me like a horse, are the beginning of the next moment, the one where we write each other in another kind of language, one that can only be read by the horses in the other world, and the dogs that guard our hearts at the gates between a love that died, and a love that's just getting born.  So you rewrite me with your nails and with your voice, you write over her, and I write over the her that still lives on your skin, and this is a moon that does not forget these old stories, because we only forget the old lovers, and let the old lovers go, when we no longer know who we are.  Your salt tongue on my salt skin turns me to a pillar when I turn around, one written by the tongues of the goddess of the graveyard, and all her cousins, who tell me that I'm not supposed to fall in love, because that will make me dead and alive in the same breath, and that means that I owe them something, and they own my heart.  But they own my heart.


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