Pockets

Do you remember how I wove the starlight into my eyes, rinsed my hair in the echoes of the moon so I could shine through the night, deep into the vapor of morning,

where the saturation of violent violet, purple passion personified, fades like a single drop of indigo in a vast crystal cistern, everything tinged with a blue deeper than the bottom syllable of your very existence?

Did you think the sun was my enemy, just because I dance to the bassline of darkness? What kind of fool are you, trying to pocket comets and planets without even learning the names of their moons? What kind of place is your pocket? Dark and cramped, protected from the world by flimsy fabric, flayed by your fingers, every time they enter. Nothing precious could live there for long.

What you remember doesn’t matter in the end; I have it all—every memory, every kiss, every heartbreak, every abandonment, every lie is written into the fabric of my being, the text of my mind, and still, I don’t make you my villain.