𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩

THE MOON IS LUMINOUS TONIGHT,   full and round and marrow - piercing,  silver light seeping into a room which is not a room but his body and hers,  unmade in the absence of transgression.  him,  the man in imitation of man,  words dislodging like exit wounds    (  never mind his white - knuckled hands  ).    she sees the way his tongue wrestles with syntax    —    how it impales itself,  two seconds later,  with desiccate calm as he says,  do not leave me.  tension stifles the air between silence and sound,  vowels teetering on the edge of demand and appeal.  still,  the sharp hook of his words snag in her breast and wrests her towards him.  beneath the long shadows,  rufus’ face is cadaverously white.  preternaturally still,  like placid waters.  teeth in the imitation of teeth :   nothing but the hunger,  the burning,  the absence.

𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘱 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.

❛    where would i go ?    ❜      she asks.  never mind the hypotheticals :   this is a rhetorical act she’s long learned from him,  ever the thespian.  and perhaps this would be a kind of intimacy if not for his gaze,  which is unfocused and dislocated,  which is to say that man and moon are not quite there.  once,  she might have folded under his gravity,  but now gō steps closer and it no longer feels like trespass.

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵, 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥, 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘭𝘧.

his eyes twist the light like polished knives,  hiding what he never knew how to show.  yet,  she can still see something peer out from inside stained glass windows    —    something hushed and haunted by the spectre of melancholia.  gō had always wondered about the prayers that cross his lips.  now,  she thinks she understands.  slowly,  carefully,  rosy - fingers lift to fix a stray lock of hair that had fallen in his face,  brushing the warm parts of her against the cold parts of him.  they linger near the crescent slopes of his cheek,  flesh to flesh,  eyes seeking his for exculpation,  before settling back at her side.  the moment creates itself so tenderly it is almost mythical.      

animal.    cat color.    burgundy month.    february song.    neon by yukika number.    seven day or night.    day plant.    winter - flowering cherry smell.    jasmine, violet, and strawberry season.    spring drink.    white tea astrological sign.    capricorn element.    water  /  earth

LOVE IS THE BUTCHER’S KNIFE,   the gentle act of impalement between her fourth and fifth ribs.  it is the blade she pledges her heart to    —    the illusive hand slicing past the pericardium,  carving a wound which is not a wound but a space she names salt and ghost and memory.      [    you want to die for love.    ]      and yes,  perhaps she is a fool for wanting love,  for always trying to mine it from dry - husk grounds,  but are either of them happy as they are ?  is he any happier,  always scorning love ?

[    you want to die for love.    ]      rufus steps closer,  almost dizzying her with the way he bends the earth around him.  beneath his moon - sliver mouth,  his teeth imitate teeth in the barest function of his self.  the very shape of him carves a wretched space for its own and she is drawn to him the way light is drawn to a black hole    —    the way the light warps,  is wholly consumed at singularity.      [    you want to die for love.    ]      so she lifts her chin  :  peers up at him with wide,  fawn eyes as though they’re on the cusp of a dare.  here is the curve of her neck,  the way it leans in and bares itself beneath the analgesic light.  perhaps she is a fool,  but rapture is the sun that spills through his hair and she wants to dissolve in that light.      [    you always have.    ]

SHE THOUGHT SHE’D KILLED HIM.   no,  that’s wrong,  isn’t it ?  it was not him she killed but herself.  some people die gasping but hers was a quiet death.  self - wound.  salt - wound.  she’s long made her grave.  she want to be tender again.  but she’s reminded of the winter of her vanishing,  remembers drowning the parts of her that ever loved and longed for him.  gō recalls the blood and the bloom and still believes that sabotage and safety can be one and the same. 

𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.  𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦,  𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴.

gō,  he breathes,  and she recoils at the way his gaze probe hers for some spark of recognition.  feels nauseated by the hope she spies there,  by the way it limns his honey eyes as he searches for something in her to leap out and say,  yes that’s me.  she pales by the seconds,  cadaverously white,  and feels ill all at once.  she is not the girl he loves anymore.  matsuoka gō is gone,  displaced and usurped by a pretender,  by a concept and construct,  and it pains her to meet him in this inconsolable form.

don’t look at me,  she thinks,  cheeks mottled cherry - red.  heat rises to the nape of her neck and she lowers her head.  laps at her terror,  her shame.    (  i never wanted you to see me this way.  )    a hand finds itself upon her chest,  fingers curling in as though her heart has fissured open,  as though the tremblings are something she can control so long as she holds on tight.  somewhere under her tongue is the tepid hint of his name,  a familiar name,  a name like heavy stones,  like summer tides and bright blue skies    —    a name that she was worthy of,  once.

and truth is :   she would slice herself open if he asked.  halve her body like the sweetest fruit.  pit herself pure and pretty if it means feeding his hunger.    (  she thinks it would be a blessing.  thinks it would be kind.  )    truth is :   she wants to take his hand and guide him to a place where the light is warm,  where forgiveness is abundance and lilacs open all year long.

𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴 :   𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘣 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰.

❛    —    you shouldn’t be here.    ❜      her own voice startles her.  each word is stretched thin,  cradled by a soft brutality.  a terrible quietude swallows the landscape,  folds them into the shadows.  here,  she studies the avowals of her love,  mindful of the way age has chiseled at his face.  his cheeks have lost their boyish charms,  yielding to new slopes and angles and a severity born from the carcass of trauma.  the body of his body appears eaten at the edges.  only his mouth,  once the root of all her desires,  remains invariable.

❛    i told you to not look for me.  why did you look for me ?    ❜     a strange violence writhes from within,  some inexplicable emotion splitting her ribs,  bone by bone,  in what can only be called penance.  home is where the heart is but hers is a grave hosting a ghost,  a grimace,  a sequence of stigmata for which there is no name.

𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘣 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦.  𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

although kyō is officially retired as the last ama    (  海人 or “sea woman”  )    of iwatobi    (  the fishermen are always clamoring for her return  ),    she still goes out to sea every so often,  diving for clams and sea urchins and pretty shells for gō’s personal collection.