He is dressed in all black, even his face
He addresses me
If he was going to hit me he would have hit me
I can’t see his face, but he seems transfixed by the horizon
He moves towards me, coiling and tumbling in the air
His… his hands are adorned
He barks it,
He keeps trying
it seems to make him anxious.
the violent man snarls
“He’s always in my dreams.”
… (but that was another kind of man, not this…that I loved)
His chitin eyes sank into mine
his voice thick in it.
His hand was on my thigh (the skeleton’s was around my ankle, it’s skull winking at me from the belly of a distant star.)
He spoke softly, lips parting by my ear,
I put my hand on his, not sure if I was stopping it or holding it to me.
He looked at me, and I couldn’t read it, couldn’t see a thing in his face, but
his voice was sweet.
He leans into me and his expression warms as he continues,
I wanted to follow him, but the intensity of that impulse, compulsive and unbidden, made me decide against it, so I watched him disappear into the gloom of the oversized archway that led gaping back into the complex, aching slightly.
The mosaic was eating me.
He took my hands, held them before me, palms up. (a pair of eyelids snapped shut, leaving scarlet stigmata.)
His face was a crease of worry.
a timid smile curving into his beautiful–so beautiful!–face.
He pulled my hands to him, and I let him lift me,
he stood pointing, wind worrying at his hair
He pointed out into the vast, empty expanse of the water and I couldn’t see what it was he wanted me to
a knife in his hand, and he sliced into it (a burst of luminous ichor slashing into the air.)
I hadn’t noticed him walk past me
I looked around at him
his slender shoulders and wide eyes
my eyes with his. He seemed calm
There was a book written in his sclera, all the text shunted to the side, deformed
his delicate human face, something forlorn and gleeful, caught, crows feet, ashen, livid.
He had written it from his perspective,
and his beautiful blood spattered on the worn timber
a speckled painting I could decipher.
-and I can feel the lichen on my flesh, the spores in my pores and the Mystery blistering within me a hoarse whisper, a lover expending themselves, throbbing mammalian surrender.
And I knew what I had to do.