Again

The sun pierced through the gaps in the bamboo blinds across our bedroom window. Though I was already on the precipice between the waking and the sleeping world, I allowed myself the leisured pleasure of basking in the quiet contemplation that came only from lying alongside the slight but warm curves of my dear Marguerite.

Her breath, her strong but relaxed frame tucked in against my own, neatly and beautifully.

These moments were precious to us both.

Before she woke and before the cycle began.

Again.

I’d whisper lovelorn poetry and we’d share humorous thoughts and childish jokes

while we could.

Once we rose, were nourished and hydrated, we entered the ceremonial bathing pavilion and cleansed ourselves before our skin was purified and sacrificed in the finest natural oils and ointments.

Before we entered the altar room, I squeezed her hand extra hard.

“I’m sorry,” were the only words uttered.

Once inside the altar room, she took her place upon the altar with her delicate, glistening skin an engaging but heavy sight.

I took my position above her, our bodies interlocked, and I sensed the burden on her shoulders as ritual — our communion — began.

Before the hour was up, our constitutionals drew to a close, as our sacrificial discharges poured out. We were spent and drained as we made our way back to our quarters for dinner and hydration.

Before long we were laid out, tired and weary, in bed. Whispered “I love you”s and shared minutiae of devotion were exchanged between us. Night fell and we drifted off to sleep.

The sun pierced again through the blinds, alerting my slowly waking body to the fact it wasn’t long before our apotheosis began.

Again.

Still time, though short, to etch my love upon her heart through bold and underrated prose. The sound of her heated, nervous laughs and the kisses we shared beyond the ceremonial bathing pavilion and altar room reminded me of the why.

Once bathed and moisturised, we were slaves to the tightened rules of reverential congress.

Everything was timed precisely.

Once we entered, sanitised for our daily veneration, Marguerite lay on the glorified shrine within the chancel. She was beautiful but burdened behind the eyes. Only I could see it. Our rite, our sacrament wore us down, but we drew from it what we could. Worked through the erasure and distortion.

One hour. If we tried to stretch it beyond that time, there were consequences. So within the hour, we completed our daily offering. Then took dinner by candlelight, hands clenched in silence before night fell and sleep offered release and relief. Reclamation. If temporary and temporal.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as Marguerite gave way to sleep.

As sun swept through the gaps of our bamboo blinds, slowly stretching across my eyes, I became aware as ever of Marguerite’s slight but warm presence against my limbs and chest. My favourite time of each day was these moments. These stolen seconds outside our sacrificial observance.

Before we entered the sanctuary and gave of ourselves more than we could, I felt Marguerite had drawn progressively away internally. Still there was affection. Still there was devotion.

But rationed. Rationalised rations of emotional tête-à-tête.

Because. Soon.

Again.

Our ritual would be performed. Our value established and legitimised upon the altar. Where she would be laid out, sublime and supple, for one hour. Expectations would be met. Because they must. Again.

Embraces were left until after, despite the pained keratosis that arose following each sacrificial congress.

“I’m sorry” was never enough. Never really.

But she knew.

Our dinner in arms tightly wrapped, as night and sleep were welcomed.