southern borders

I miss simple happiness.

Steady.

you're vague in the reckoning behemoth in its beckoning, sliding spoonfuls through the bottleneck serrated in the wandering

5.

You’re my fire salt lexicon, and all this solstice muttering burns calcium red roses in my head.

You, clutter of blankets, leather jackets and red-kiln hair. Train rides and set up suspense, a tense grip on the armrest, plum shades of sour vinaigrette, I love you. I wash my hands every day. They're cold,  like amber and purple streaks of marble, no longer soft and crumbly. You've turned me from whiplash candy cane powder into something real and savoury. This nutmeg apple crunch, cut through  with oranges, zest of lime. Sweet and sour, flying high, slowly sifting cocoa powder, my starry signs. I never believed in horoscopes but you, sunshine maverick and chocolate orchards; I'm re-learning how to read my zodiac. This time, I'm keeping my pen at bay; there's an almanac of astrology I could sharpen my journals with. Right now, though, I don't think I need it. I have this clutter of blankets, leather jackets. Your red-kiln hair.

The night you breathed those three words I stopped my Odysseus wandering, and finally came home.

You're cinnamon green crunch, crisp apple crumble. You're wildfire fairy lights all cotton candy and salt lake. You're black lace coffee, still steaming hot, no sugar. You're orange grove dust and Solomon-split hands. You're the second hand stopped, Morpheus twitching in your Poseidon eyes. You're all arms. All legs. All mouth-driven spiderweb. I'm caught like venom flytrap.

It's keeping me awake.  My thunder-drum, web-spun, spoken-word-hum, a violent shaking in my atlas hands. I'm not used to this. Searching in the dark, hot beacon burning on my neck, heavy sighs. You've turned me breathless, weightless. Wingéd gut. Sights set on the tumult of waves rolling in by the shore. You're turning me inside and out, hands, and skin, and were-dreams where you're hammer: me, anvil. I want you all, entire. Freckled skin, immolation  by the morning light. It's solid states, liquid ire. This is longing for sin, for the gold in fire.

They call you Red Lady. Ceramic sanctum, cracking hammer-touch. I try not to speak so loud. My voice is heavy lead, and you, Fire Woman, you are unblemished silver. Youth in time. No-stone-unturned-divine. I burn my devil hands by your messiah touch. Sacred tenenbaum, my  red-eyes half-closed at your freckled sketch artist texts. I've missed this legend. The prediction of death. The Red Lady's masthead, her sweet templar breath.

It's 4am and I'm watching a cooking show. 'A Pair in a Kitchen,' is what it's called, and they're making lamb roast. The host is laughing, slapping wet meaty hands on her partner. You can see the moment he shrinks away, shoulder clammy with guilt and juices. Lamb seasoned, cooked, served. She keeps turning to me and smiling, teeth glaring, daring me to disagree with the ridiculously primitive way she has prepared the dead animal. Her partner smiles and nods, ignoring the dusty, and somewhat stale, thank-you she gives him. Every few seconds, she speaks to me. But the TV is on mute. I can't hear a word out of that red-embossed mouth. She points and yells and still, silence. I think that's why I like listening to the muted channel so much. It feels just like every day speech, with people talking, and laughing, but never really being heard.

I used to think it was bright red warning signs and the promise of the colour blue that kept me up at night. Now I know my hands are raw from scratching at the coarse black shales on my roof, thinking that if I could scrape back the new layer of sediment, and rust, I might find something familiar to help me sleep again.