.passages.

If You're Good at Love

ONE

Which you are. My feet stand weak from vertigo; however, I’ve longed for this freedom since I watched Lilya spread her wings. This time my body was weightless in thought and serenity. It seemed that there was a faint hum coming from the ash concrete, separating me from the tower. Its geometric framework juts from my asylum, appearing endless, though only upward. Pale sunlight rains through my brisk sky, I quickly purge these ripples of warmth with shivers. It happened so fast; her tears were falling on God’s design. Gwyndolin stands some feet from the edge of the megastructure, expressionless and markedly bored. I can sense that this evening will be new and distinct.

I was yet to hear Gwyndolin’s true self be expressed, and whether or not I pretend to be the person I want to become, her eerie scrutiny remains. My subconscious is beginning to mistake her statue-like figure for rebar. This awkwardness has pervaded our homestead. Her core competency is to witness.

Effervescence glows through our air between us and the gardens, our view could not be more abstract. There is a holy ambience writhing around us. An eagle-sized insect, a perfectly white pearl. A stunning feathered creature with eight wings like oars. A droning sine, a hummingbird. An intimidating awe pulling my ego from its shell.

Its golden sunlight permeates my heart in the presence of God. The materiel feels so heavy and my focus is profound. I pull the weight from my hip and forget myself. She raises the barrel and takes aim at the angel. A martyr is dead and I have killed. It’s fluttering in silent agony, its blood is soaking deep inside the concrete floor. My blurry view is sharpened only when I blink and my tears are scattering the burgundy stains. My guilty hands are shaking and my breaths grow increasingly shallow.

Her empty stomach pukes and her face turns white. Her torso convulses and her limbs contort. She falls to her knees and weeps like the rash that she is.

TWO

You think I am. My feet stand weak from this nausea. My teal green alcove, my kingdom come. My freedom at the 45th floor and your cluttered, arrogant reality. I know that your prison is not religious and this light that you swear to see is not divine. One morning wake will show you past the ribbon, and not giving up will prove worth my strength.

These longest nights are only cryptic delusions. My paralysis is unintentional, I can promise you that. Your white lies are as devastating as your death will be and your poetry is artificial. When you murmur invocations you truly believe in heavens fate, while that glare demands that my thoughts remain suppressed. Your only redemption is innocent beauty. Silence rewards you with my secret admiration, but is that dormant mass even you?

Syrena stands some feet from the edge of the megastructure. She falls to her knees and weeps like the angel that she is. Her tears flash softly as they fall. Our blood soaked concrete is turning putrid. I beg of her to treat everything as one, to hold everything as if it were me and to fall through this floor and dance in the prairie. I am beginning to wish that she could die and come back, to mark her place and understand that it is everywhere. Her sleeping id is remarkably simple and confident. You are humanly beautiful. I know that your creativity is boundless and powerful. Syrena you are my only one, and everything you do that is blasphemous will fall apart when we can finally hold each other.

They are each other’s only witness. Their brutish castle stays anchored still.