Miranda

Go ahead, you control the narrative, it’s your talent.
Writing and rewriting characters, cautiously distributing pedestals, knocking them over in your playpen. Tectonic forces, cunning and strategy; don’t worry, you’re winning.

The beauty of searing heat, kaleidoscopic rage. Rewriting glances, new dance moves distributed to everyone, shifting sands, reblocking, reorganizing the insides. Exhuming a body and reburying it with the limbs akimbo. Exhuming it again, licking your fingers. Anything to avoid the coming betrayals. The dull ache, the loneliness.

The gulf between us
Is more than the breadth and depth of two oceans, more than 28 hours.
A time machine is required. A shaman. A saint.
Even those might not work.
We live on different molecular planes, unfold on different hemispheres.

You reside in an endless pink dawn in which the sun never rises.
A dawn darker than night.
Where love is only an image holding up the sky, never actually to be received.

Here on earth, I’m mourning the tapestry, dirt and ash in my hands. The woven facts of my love, shredded and burnt in an instant.