She turned away from me into the twilight – her muslin
so light a blue it faded into the hollow of her throat.
The flutter of her pulse a human’s brilliance.
The iron of her will a woman’s brilliance.
She was the crumb – the sparrow – and the hawk.
Who tempted and who turned?
The snake’s a man’s myth anyways.
What should I forbid her of myself –
my power, my mischief, and my weakness,
my nights of honey, my days of endless night.
How long were hers? – a fistful of rosewater,
cardamom & lime, fruit touching the very
velvet of its limits.
We ruined one another splendidly.
The little channels of blood at her wrist tasted
like musk & mint & hunger itself again.
We fed each other what we could. Cruelty
& honey. Her breath against my mouth.
So if I must taste of death again, well –
The dirt was cold without her.
The twilight a taste of bitterness.
They do not see I have no more
to fear. When she turned towards me
& offered me her wrist – I tasted what I could
of her life, of my life, for a time. A time.
And a time is all that any of us get.