this is the real stuff, not the stupid stuff...none of that was stupid...
I know you say I’m a black magic wielder, some say a witch, but I’ve given up anything that may have once been opened to me when you open to me, because no enchantment could ever match you. I light a candle with the intention of pouring myself into you, like I were half-animal pouring secrets into the river at certain times of the month, but when your heat rises to the surface and your skin starts to shudder and shed, I am shifted in shape and intention. If I surrender to you, I fully expect you to write me with the conscience of the 20th century, but we’re grown to forget, and we’re more than a little prone to ignore the warning signs that suggest this is happening in time, and it will happen again in memory. If I try to hold you, to surround you with chords to hold you in place to protect you like a child or to keep you available for me, I will forget your name, and when the night is as dark as this one, your name is the only thing that I have left, written on the edges of my fingernails so that I can read it by the light of the moon.
This was a moment where the face of the moon glowed brighter than it ever had before, because the sun was reflecting on her, hoping that it would be bright enough to witness the things we did in the dark. There was a moment, dear Marie, where your face was as bright as the moon. The rising tides in the blood pulled us close together before the same tides swept us away into something we couldn’t control. These are the same tides that pull the memories of the dead back, back into the recesses of the 20th century. Our blood has origins in the same place that turned the way we would always think about the heart, its unimaginable darkness can never compete with the things that happened on the concrete and stones of the cities that gave our bloodlines a place to call home, a place from which to escape.
You, more golden than the light of the sun, and so very afraid of the daylight, you are always at the cafe in my mind, speaking of gender theory, Freud, and the best way to untangle a nose ring in the middle of a storm. You would have found me soon enough if I didn’t find you first, and you couldn’t lose me quickly enough, because I reminded you of all the things you wanted to become. Perhaps it was always the same for both of us, and in the end, we are always crying crying crying, because to hold you was like trying to hold the weight of the century where we were born, and it was always destined to be more weight than we could ever bear.