We are all animals. Wild and carnal. We are all somehow, somewhere, touched by the sun. Stained glass and black knives. We sleep in tunnels and worship the moon. Wolves and blood-wine. We form art out of eyes (ocean colors and heavens), we trace summer vines on the curves of backs and we write ourselves an odyssey. Sometimes we are honeyed rain and cosmic touch.
“This is okay,” you say. “This is how it should be.” I nod my head, tell myself I am young and backwater born and do not know any better.
I heard your smile makes the violets back home blush, and I mark the highway back to you with my blood. We are fire engines, floating past the menial traffic, flashing gold and white and red.
This is how you make a god of yourself; you channel the midnight sun and wrap your legs around me like a starfish; frozen in the same position for days.
Tell me, does believing in something make it real? Do you flood celestial light on dark arctic days? If cannibalism is a ritual, you swallow my stars and become immortal.
Yesterday felt special, like perhaps it was the same day Romeo & Juliet died (oh, how the pink-toothed martyrs celebrated), like perhaps Atlas falls on his knees for us, sheet-faced and panting; like maybe a winged horse repainted the horizon on a grim Tuesday morning when the sky was silver chaos.
The world may remember us still. We float into the night sky like lanterns (a festival for every forgotten god, an orange flower lit for every lonely creature in the universe).