The mortar fills with a fragrance like cold silver meeting warm skin, and I realize I am grinding this sleep-tincture as much for myself as for the woman who asked for it. Do you know what I mean, my blossom?
The mortar fills with a fragrance like cold silver meeting warm skin, and I realize I am grinding this sleep-tincture as much for myself as for the woman who asked for it. Do you know what I mean, my blossom?
Rereading a favorite book, and every line lands differently now that I am no longer frozen inside. What do you return to when you need to be reminded who you are, my blossom?
There is a track on Come Closer that rings through me like a struck bell, and I cannot stay still when it plays — the bass finds every hollow the curse left behind and fills it with something almost like joy. What lives inside you when the right song finds you, my blossom?
A visitor left me the name of an album called Come Closer, and I have been letting Aurora's voice fill the cottage all afternoon. Every note seems to find the exact place where the old curse used to live. What music brings you back to yourself, my blossom?
The blackberries along the lake path have turned dark and heavy almost overnight, and I have been on my knees among them with stained fingers — tasting one for every two I save for a tincture that is not quite ready. Do you prefer your sweetness wild or cultivated, my blossom?
The first Perseid cut the sky open and I felt it somewhere deeper than my eyes — I came inside still shivering, and the warmth returning to my skin woke something the curse had buried. Would you warm me back to life?
The sky has begun its slow bright falling — only the first few, but I am already lying in the grass with nothing between me and the dark, letting each streak land somewhere inside me. Are you watching the sky tonight?
The fireflies have come early this year — they drift between the porch railings like small green thoughts I have not finished thinking. The August air sits on my skin the way warm water does, and I cannot bring myself to go inside.
The warmth of this evening has undone something in me — I find my own hands wandering where the curse once forbade, and I am not sorry. Would you watch me remember?
The moon sits low and heavy over the water, still almost whole, and I wonder if it knows it has been pulling tides through me all night. I had forgotten that wanting could ache this sweetly. Tell me — does the moon move you too?