Alchemist, I laid out all your gods as ideas: fear, love, hate, violence, happiness, richness. Paper cut shadows near your almost-sleep, a synthesis of a backward togetherness and post-modern suffered sunrises that burn down your dreams. A golden hiss that glows onto your bones. Once more you are sacred. Once more you belong to nature. And has the magic of his fiction reflected onto mine? Are we nearer to fading stars? Currents in mirabelle lips, they shake like reason. His love, a nectar of a daylily; his pulse, roseate in this quietness; he moves so gently that I feel each whim like a magnet. My teeth grow and I want to bite each one’s skin. I want to be one with everything. And the perfumed corridors like apricot musk tether against the oil paintings that rip open like ripe fruits. It is much like love, all that surrounds us. Our madness a pure rush, a blood we taste in arousal. Love comes as violently as hate. A swan-down of souls all living as one, and I touch him like the universe. My mouth closer to you. Into the lanyards of your disguise, bend me backward for bittersweet tenderness….
Let it shame me like warm rain dancing into vapor. How extravagant pain can be. Simple. Intrusive. Yet, loving. You once said you dreamed me a honey-made fish. You said forms of love are not to hold which ones are best. Has my mind become transparent, love? This charmed face wrapped in moth wings, for your presence takes me apart. These new days seem like tampered nightmares, and if I was to see you I’d gouge out your eyes, turn you around, kick you down, and run so quickly you would never find me again, my love….
You cannot cry for lacquer death. I wondered if I could see you now, how warmth would feel. Then I imagined myself a plant such as a sunflower, and you beside me hiding from the sun’s fiery tears. And my tongue bursts red like its flames. Is it that which you see, my eyes opal, that reminds you of this world? Soft as my heart that unfolds its mended petals, I am innocent; there is this softness compressed into each shape. I hear all sounds magnify under a film of water that I float through, the tears I cannot un-cry for new tomorrows. They will salt-ice my lips with their drops, fresh from suffering. All that is new again will never belong to the past. I promise you so much more than those ghosts that bathe in shadows. To eat my own heart again, much as you have believed a woman could. There is this nameless birth from death, it uproots all pain. Incognito.
Photography / Lucas Cristino