if the heavens ever did speak
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
She is quieting in a way he had forgotten existed. The possession has not been with him long (its inception is part of that missing time, the chunk carved out that he cannot recall, the part that lives behind the purple), but already he forgets life without it.
(He must forgot life without it, lest the longing drive him mad.)
But she is an oasis – somehow, she stills his restless mind. She does nothing for the Other memories, the ones lurking beyond, but she keeps his mind where it belongs and for that he is so grateful he would throw himself at her feet.
He’d even pray to her, if he was still the praying kind.
What brought you here today, she asks, and normally, with others, he would brush the question off. But to her, in her stillness, her calm, her beauty, he wants to tell her the stories even though he knows they are strange and the ramblings of a demented man.
“I don’t stay anywhere too long,” he says, then, “my mind hasn’t bene my own. It touches things. Others. I don’t mean to. I don’t want to. I don’t want their memories.”
(Their secrets.)
She touches him, side to side, and his breath catches. He isn’t used to being touched. She is solid and there and sweet and he leans into her, just slightly.
“But my mind can’t touch you,” he says, voice still wondrous, “and I don’t know why.”
She is at once an anchor – solid, grounding him.
She is at once a life raft, and he, the drowning man.
Whatever she is – anchor, life raft, goddess – he doesn’t know and won’t question, not as long as his mind feels quiet and he feels himself, feet on solid ground.
sleaze
cancer x garbage
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