We were but
drops on old church floors, bursting through invisible webs from a sky bleeding
freely. The roof was a battered body, deeper wounds than gun holes would bring.
Sticks and stones and fox cubs in what remained of a musty attic. Your name
written on my favourite pink dress as I lay on one of the remaining benches,
counting stars for another tomorrow. And your shadow crouching at my feet,
ready to spring at any intruder, broken knife in hand.
We were
lost little children, strangers in foreign lands, promised off to slowly fading
photographs in the back of our minds. You had been thousands of miles away, and
I had not known there was a way to cut off the dead from holding me down.
Us two, trapped
together in the ruins of the house of god.
I’d name
you metatron if you’d call me mary.
I, as a
figure of broken hearts and bled memories, have held the cards of the dark
tighter to my chest; have been as human as can be. My inner has remained a
burning candle of wonders, and I have given life to myself despite the hands of
men touching me.
The rain
ceases its droning, and I gather myself up on my elbows, looking down at you,
hair wet.
There were
things you did not tell me, things you would not mention. Words your eyes did
speak, but your tongue kept back. When we had walked here, you had held my hand
because you felt I was like you, and you were right. But still, when I had
witnessed you crying, you had been like me. I wondered if you had wings, where
you hid your thousands and thousands of feathers. Your hair fell about you like
it carried life and the stoic stroke of your mouth gave you age beyond years.
Your hands
had laid me on the bench; your arms had carried the virgin here. My heart was
still held by you.
Further
propped up by my arms, and then sitting upright, I took in our shelter fully.
Once the sun would come up, light would break in through all the glass windows
and cast a strange circle right where we sat. Had you anticipated this? Planned
for it? I found the time to ask myself how deep your childish youth went, and
how far your budding maturity went. How easily you’d lose control in the sight
of pain. And the immense surge of power at your fingertips, though warm, slick
and moist about my soul, as if coating me.
So you
feared me so many times more than you feared much else, because I would touch
you at the spine of your heart and slide my fingers about your thoughts, like
kissing you all over your face while you closed your eyes.
Or stroking
the back of your neck carefully, as I inched closer to it.
It was
then, that the last few drops of water fell on your face as you turned to look
at me. I wiped them away, like tears, and remembered another world, another
time, another hand wiping away my own tears.
I felt
myself slipping, falling into the past like a deep and dark emptiness craving
me just as you laid your hand on mine, and I saw your eyes light up at my
distress. Then morning caught us by chance, so swift, and all was covered in
flickering light.
During the
night to come, you held me ever so tight.