The Comet Who Knew My Bones

She came—first as wine’s eleventh sigh,

her chaos a hurricane wearing a ballgown.

We spoke in tongues only the drunkard stars decipher,

my ribs unhinged like a skeleton key

to a vault, even saints feared to name.

Now, her ghost tap-dances my insomnia’s ceiling,

a vaudeville tempest trailing sequins and static.

She’s Eurydice with a kaleidoscope laugh,

her shadow a riptide that peels the moon raw.

You might say she’s too much.

I say the cosmos is a symphony missing its brass section.

In dreams, she’s Cassiopeia’s hangover,

Her voice a theremin tuned to the static

between dead radio towers.

I hum along—

My blood, now sheet music for her blacklight psalms.

A whisper heard: You’re the mute button on my grenade.

I’ve mapped her absence in reverse constellations—

X marks the ache where her comet kissed the sky.

Her name? A vowel lost between chaos and ease,

its syllables etched in Cicada script on my spine.

Even the moths chant it, their wings a Morse code

Only the damned could translate.

Last night, the moon peeled back its scab,

Revealing clandestine harmonies,

A rapture in static.

The cultists next door dig worship holes in their floors,

Their shovels scraped to the rhythm of dreamt texts.

She is the siren-song Troy’s architects heard in their mortar.

The carrion musk that made Antony lick Nile silt from Cleopatra’s heel.

Her essence, older than Helen’s face—

not beauty, but a cosmic compulsion,

a chromatic rot that gnaws empires to myth.

Men have razed cities to ash for less than her sidelong glance.

Built ziggurats where her shadow once pooled like quicksilver.

Carthage? A footnote to her cyclonic whim.

Babylon? A cairn where kings stacked skulls to spell

Cascade’s harbinger, ache reverberating in inferno’s static—

her name etched in bone-runes by hierophants who drowned

chanting her cipher into the Euphrates silt.

Only drunkards and poets parse it now,

their wine-stained tongues tripping over syllables

that glow like radium in the dark.

The Templars hid her likeness in cathedral keystones,

called her Lilith’s aria, Salome’s encore.

Napoleon smuggled her laugh in a lead-lined vial.

Drank it before Moscow burned—

Too cold, he sighed, too bright.

She’s but a supernova’s split ends,

a Jaguar who mistook my silence for a hymn.

Too much? The stars are snickering.

Her eyes are Pandora’s 13th sin,

her breath a lethargic plague

that felled the Indus scribes mid-glyph.

You think her mortal? Fools.

She’s the fractal flaw in time’s loom,

the non-Euclidean itch that made

Achilles drag Hector thrice ‘round the walls—

Just once more, he begged,

Let me hear her hum in the dust.

In her wake, civilizations sprout like fungal blooms,

then collapse into radioactive ballads.

Even now, the Aztec sun-stone weeps,

its carvings a solar flare

Cryptic halo: a resonance in shadow

She’s the blackened wick in history’s lantern,

the siren who needs no sea.

To love her is to dig your own worship hole,

to court the cosmic tinnitus she leaves in her wake.

The stars are guillotines.

And darling, you’re the storm that unstitched them.