Redamancy

I could never forget the feeling of foralsket; the night in which I met you. Porcelain skin bathing in moonlight; eyelashes clutching teardrops. Gentle hands weilding black and blue knuckles, fingers laced with rings of all personalities.

An angel strumming harmonics and breathing so very lightly, so as not to awake the darkness within. And soothing; in your steps to where I lay; mouth ever so gently kissing my own tears away, swallowing them like holy water. You're in the desert. As am I. And you are my own mirage. The dust settles into the cracks of my heart and hardens like concrete. I used to know you. You bled to know me. A sacrificial redamancy; a whirlwind of pure wanderlust intricately embedded in us...to explore one another. To understand, no, to become the pain, the torment, the light, the youth, the forever and everything that each of us held like delicate china. And you sipped and you sipped and you sipped and we drank eachother as though we held ambrosia.

And there we were, skin glittering through the curtain of smoke settled at the soles of our feet. The pavement was cold. The air was brisk. And the night swallowed us. It swallowed us whole. We fed the darkness; we fed eachother. Well and happy and full. Redamancy; such a long time ago yet all-consuming. A rarity in my mosaic of memories, so significant, so special, so precious that I must grasp my chest as remembrance brings overbearing grief and nostalgia. My shortness of breath must surely be of the memory of your gaze, of your touch, of holding you; of letting go. To expel you from my mind is unthinkable; no I hold our redamancy all to dearly. So shortly lived; I weep at our grave where the ivy grows over my body on cold, wet earth. Our love is a cemetary, and you; a passerby holding your breath each time you pass. And I am still here and our blanket is mothbitten and unraveling; my fingers bleed as I desperately weave needles in and out of the fabric. I sew it to the bed, to where we lay, just under the headstone-no we must stay warm, winter is here and I am small and I need your shadow to keep me company.

You keep your blindfold on, secured over your pretty eyes. You keep the bottle near, for your sweet thirst. Ambrosia is no longer needed for you, but again, I remind you oh lover, I am in the desert and I am parched. My ribs are like mountains and my mind an evermoving symphony of empty words and crumpled letters.

It's deafening; the redamancy. I hear it through nights spent tearing my sheets down into the earth. It runs fingers over my back like spiderlegs dancing down my spine. It's deafening; because of it's beauty. Because of it's purity. Because of it's rarity.

I never will be your bottle of choice, not again. I am empty and you are a thirsty young soul. My fingers will not be yours to seek in the ocean of duvet each night. My heart will not be yours to listen to, to sing to, to dance to. No, not any more. I am too small to be your everything.

Small enough to crawl into the corner of the closet where it's dark and warm and where if I close my eyes and listen hard enough I can still hear your sweet whispers of redamancy.

Spring is dawning, and I am grown over in moss and insects. Children play in the maze of trees that now grow in our cemetary. All of our headstones laid down deep beneath the dirt, sleeping in the shade of time. Butterflies and dragonflies dance on gusts of seabreeze, they are everywhere lover. I wish you could see me; dripping in flowers and vines and the dew of the last frost. What once was snow and hail is now petals and aromas of sweet lilacs in bloom. And I am old and wise and pleasantly wrinkled with smile lines as I remember. As I remember the redamancy.