Hurt here? hurt here? here? here? ... as your fingers trace my spine and it isn't possible for me to feel the hurt, only the gentle heat of your touch. The calm precision. So I remain quiet as you stick me blindly, trusting the aim of ten thousand years, the keenness of your fingers. Qi blocked, you tell me much later with the face of a prophet, your great sadness born of deconstructed magic. Then why not stick me all over I think, empty your arsenal, repair what I have broken, FIX ME.
She speaks of outfitting in Paris (Well, of course Istanbul is better for shopping. Much better) and lounging about a cafe or three and then maybe catching a glimpse of royalty in London when everyone listening knows she will be on her back and knees and cloistered to the whim of another that will not include her pleasures or fancies. But it is polite to entertain illusion and the trip is not until October: Do account for less sunlight and pack some warm clothes. And oh, the rain. Bloody rain.
He holsters a sword made of your discarded invectives and when he deigns to part the air (slowly, regally) the result is poetry of the highest order. And so (but?) he is always collecting debris and contaminants and failures. When he chooses to appear it is not sudden but rather he bends time to confuse you into thinking he was always there. Before the first of your memories. And whilst you claw through the embers of certainty (he does not visit the uncertain), tearing at what little remains untouched, he chastises your absurdity with a full-feckled grin. Like a skinny hairy runt of a Budha or maybe a diminutive idiot Jesus Christ. And he has minions. An endless supply in constant motion, his bidding absolute, as breath.
Snitches get stitches bitch.
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