He’d tell me of a feeling he’d get from time to time.
When-wariness would drowsily lower her shield, drunk on lethargy,
when things would grab hold a little too tightly
and the beats would become synonymous with scarcity of breath.
He’d describe it as a sorrow
and a guilt
and a regret.
and an anxiety
and the deepest passion.
It’s all of these things, he’d say, and it leaves me goddamn empty.
Cautiously, I repositioned my feet and braced myself against the playful gusts. My eyes peered over the edge, following the gravel as it descended from cliff to water.
The ocean roared at the preemptive sacrifice, waves foaming with bloodlust.
In another step – the brink. But I could go no further.
As I began to turn, a child appeared beside me on the cliff: a son I would have in thirty years’ time. My own disappointed eyes looked back at me: Had I not followed through? Had my stories of peril and grandeur been mere myth?
I grinned at the kid.
And we jumped together.
Past the stroke of midnight,
I hear her calling desperately.
I avoid my needy mistress,
In her hour of most need.
I play hard to get,
And refrain from coming into bed.
She can tire my body,
And spill blood into my eyes.
But I’ll endure her torture,
Until the moonlight dies.