Sunday morning, the sky brazen, empty. A week ago it hadn’t even begun. It doesn’t seem right that I could run the course of you in three days.
It started with: “You’re so lucky.” As she fingered, longingly, the hem of my red dress. Raw silk, from the East; it falls across skin with the soft viscosity of blood. We both knew I would never give it away. Even though I have a collection. A ream as green as apples. Another graded from tender cornflower to midnight blue.
You appeared beside her, two drinks in tendoned hand. Brought so tenderly, unrequested. For you and her. I felt a surge of -what? – objection. In my raw silk dress. What would you bring me? If I asked, could you turn me down?
You couldn’t, of course. Eventually. You didn’t. On, around, over. Not down. I fed you salmon and squid and cold wine and woke you up for more and more.
Her rage, that I expected. To lose one for the other, yes. To lose both…
I watch the unmarked sky until my eyes burn. Knowing only: I would do it again. In a second.