she is my venus in furs. she’s tattooed an ampersand on her wrist to remind herself she is plural in her creation; she within the oversoul—-the way dark matter branches galaxies together, like trees hanging soft leaves on strings tied to their fingertips.
she ate cereal out of polish teacups and drank honeyed green tea in our unmade bed. she was the first person to ever hear a whale sing while trapped in a zissou submarine during the cold war.
true beauty decays the flesh—-the ballet dancer’s feet, the pianist’s hands, a poet’s mind. she felt like the forgotten limbs who clean up murder scenes after the swarm of forensic photographs and familial tears leave the place where blood is no longer filled with memories of a human being, but stains on walls and carpets.
others love the dance, the music, and the words. i long to love the decay. to stain my skin with “&,” and know that i am an endling.