When we met, I felt lighting strike. Turning the sand inside me to glass ornaments. Twinkling in his sun, spinning on a string.
He didn’t reciprocate my love and he took my ornaments for granted.
I should have moved on.
But I can’t.
I dream of his honey eyes.
Being in his gaze is like sitting in eternal golden hour. I feel warm, special, even if just for a few minutes.
I mix a lovers tonic, an old recipe I find hidden beneath my bed.
Red wine, brandy, Star Anish, dash of cinnamon, drop of honey.
I call him, asking if he’ll come over for a drink.
He hesitates, his side of the line feels cold, I feel myself sinking in it’s depth.
“Sure.”
He only agrees because he feels sorry for me. The lonely hermit hidden away in her cottage filled with a variety of textures.
Leather furniture, cement floors, wooden sculptures, yellow stained glass.
I spray his favorite perfume on my wrists.
“You smell like Christmas.” He’d said the first time we met.
I grind the poisonous Water Hemlocks to a fine powder, adding it to the bubbling liquid.
My home smells of earthy nutmeg and bitter wine.
I picture him coming inside with a bouquet of carnations.
“My favorite flower.” I’d say.
We’d dance deep into the night, our noses touching. Pouring the warm drink into two glasses, sprinkling them with pink petals.
We’d sip our way to the afterlife. Eternal souls with skeleton hands, clasped tightly together.
If I couldn’t have him, no one could.
We were made for each other. Our paths connecting regardless of the route we took. Each time we’d meet and each time our love would be one sided.
I remove the pot from the burner, the door bell rings.
At last we’ll be together, all he has to do is drink.