There’s turning and twisting, over and under and through again—bones slick-sharp against flanks sliding smooth smooth smooth sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide like water. Run your hands along them—feel the muscles coiled under golden skin.
Swimming through an ocean of memories, blood, guts, gore, beautiful little daisies in the grass and children running through streets and catching you up by the hand by the waist twirling with you—there are flowers in your hair, and I can still remember the scent of them. Are you speaking—am I—eyes catch and hold. Look at you, you’re beautiful.
Still can remember how it feels when you bend down to listen to me, the warm puff of my breath against your neck and I can feel the soft heat of your skin against mine. Vibrating, waiting, here whisper whisper whisper.
I read the black ink splots across the pages. Feel the sharp burr of words against my fingerpads. Pages vanilla-hued and coiling, coiling around bodies of the same color coiling around the minds inside, the hands armed with clever fingers who can take apart everything if they only wanted to. There are stains of gold where she’s rubbed her head against them, like a cat wanting to be pet.
I wake from a dream where there’s a wash of auburn.
The lines that make up your body are glass-boned delicate things, they whisper snap shout. You’re breakable. Glass when shattered cuts. Do you want to test me?
The old refrain is tired and I do not yell it very loud. I go digging through black boxes for the data stored inside like the sweet flesh under a fruit’s skin. I will gorge myself upon memories until the juice runs down my chin to gild my throat with peach juice, and my fingers will be stained with blackberries.
Somewhere in there I find myself, and I take the unknown and wrap it up and hide it again for a rainy day. Somewhere in there I find you, and our fingers twist together in knots and I loop yarn around the open holes to make a blanket to keep us warm. Slivers of bone light up like candles and we hang them up to spite the moon. Who says it’s bedtime yet? Not the far-wanderers and the dreamers and the poor little fools.
Ten years from now I will quote Shakespeare across a room. This even-handed justice commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice to our own lips. I want my nails to be painted red so I can slash the air to the words I am curling up out of my throat.
Feel the straightness in your limbs and then collapse around it because it is far too late to remember your initial beginnings. Coil back around and twist and transmute stretching stretching yearning my darling yearning—
—here are the wings and the thought-planes and the light gilding the morning. The bones are slick under our fingers, smooth to the touch, cool and hard and good to hold in the palm of your hand. They feel like something present. They feel like something to ground yourself. I fall backwards into their sea and sink into elanthium twilight with the morning star stretching out above, and we blot it out with the sunlight. The bones scatter shadow-patterns across the land.
Here are the dawnings and I will paint you with them.