the last thing I remember is that I entered this room full of sorrow, stared melancholy into the art deco mirror that appeared right above the fireplace, and took the porcelain cup, a blue ink cupid, winged, mischievous, deeply amused by my conflicted heart. placed my lips right above his rebellious curls and let myself melt, dripping, slowly, thickly, into the floorboards, into these dark grooves.
I have surrendered, soaked and seething, foamed up by the young evening wind — it is a curious one! visiting only when there is something excruciating to see — a wind that can’t help but stir up, caressing my bare body, the inscribed pages on the bedside table and, though I have forbidden it many times, rising to your cheeks.
now, I am glad of it — where my own hands have failed me, the elements are taking over. you have received — through that young wind, now still passing your face, revolting against my orders — the drops from the neighbours’ watered plants, the tingling of salt water on your skin when, like aphrodite in her first hour, you emerged from a swim, the petals in the puddle (those flowers were never tame), the tired born flame of your lighter, the damp soil that carries your feet, heel to toe, toe to heel, and at last, even the very air you breathe. they have been messengers. in my name they spoke to you in ways I never could. you will feel it all, and think of it as nature’s own stubborn way, while here I lay, forgotten, cold, almost, already, mould.
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Display Image Credit: Julija Pitzek
