Redemancy (I)

In the shadow of your silhouette, under the orchard, we cry tears of burning madness, our souls intertwine. You caressed me in places words never could and your eyes spoke volumes when kisses never could.

I lay in a mess now, crying in places we laughed, back when we'd hold each other because we couldn't bemoan alone. We fell apart in the most beautiful way, however torturous, however ghastly; as your fingers worked magic and spilled love at times our voices wavered.

You had asked me once what I thought of the moon, of this world, of this life, of you; and I had answered by pouring all my love into your eyes, into that look— the one that you claimed would drive you fucking insane. And it did. And you tripped. And I stayed. And we fell apart like the pearls of a necklace that had been barely hanging by the thread; one of love, care, intimacy, devotion, and all the things that this world has ever craved of.

Maybe it was in the way that we held each others' gaze for a second too long, or maybe it was how we fell asleep in the vineyard with nothing but our lonely, naked souls draped in longing. Perhaps it was the tragedy that you knew it was the last chance, our last chance, to drink in each others' moans; to profess our mortal love for one another; to worship and avow, to ourselves and to this world.

Because you tore me open afterward, and you devoured me while I was holding myself together. Again, and again, and again. Right until the moment where my breathing would turn desperate, my hands feverishly gnawing at each and every inch of my skin you had marked, as I would be left alone to drown myself in the musk scent from the bedsheet. To pick up my own shattered shreds which would cut me long after you would've left, and to clean up the now-black blood which would be smearing my chest. And oh so abstrusely.

I could see blue: everywhere, every place, every minuscule of space and time that you had caressed; every fragment of my existence that you had tainted. I swear anyone could have seen me learning to lick up the blood off the edge of the knife when no one tipped it down my tongue, whilst I tried not to choke on the shovels you shoved down my throat.