treatswords

On Monday, I buy my first record.

We play it, while sipping a bottle of Cabernet.

The haunting tone tries to cut through the patient space, opening the door for old ghosts to appear.

White face, holes for eyes, looming to leave me with another cut.

But the door doesn’t open.

How could it?

In a space as warm as this.

I imagine ghosts melting in a pool of moon colored liquid, soaking through his yellow rug.

This isn’t a space for the dead. This is a room made to bloom.

Blue stem, purple bulbs.

A bruised flower in dry dirt.

I’ve been waiting for the sun.

His heart is big. I can hear it pounding against his chest. Yellow tentacles stemming from it.

It’s been orbiting for awhile, riddled with indelible scars.

And yet, he remains warm.

He glows, pulling shades of pink from my black horizon.

When the warmth becomes too heavy, I try and dip into a pocket of shade.

He doesn’t set, he waits patiently for me to return, without me asking him to.

I dive head first into the old star.

I feel my edges melting.

Beginning to thaw.

I’m okay with becoming liquid so long as he catches me.

And right when I think I’ve lost him, I see him following behind me, yellow clay pot in hand, absorbing my blue, collecting me like rain water.