Wrong side of the ribs.
7.12.18 – Gris
I kept following your name like it was a portent for a brilliant future, one I could hardly imagine with the clutter piled against those windows and all the telescopes shuttered behind dust and cardboard traps. I’d have set my compass to it if there was some way to make magnets bend around to a new north, though I’d wager there was a gravity shifting us slightly in that direction anyhow; you could almost make out a subtle turning of the sky that kept you squarely beneath its blue eyes. I tried not to conjure you with whispers of that title, but you heard my heart say it anyway.
We didn’t have to be seers to make forecasts and we believed them with our blood because it felt like it was coursing towards a river with greater truth. There was danger in that sweep, like white water churning beautifully but still retaining all the malice of its chaotic movement. Our flight forward was destined to be the same, some tricky channel we needed to navigate without dashing ourselves against the rocks or plunging into the endless grip of an errant eddy. I was fortunate to have the siren standing on my boat already and not worrying about pitching myself overboard for a foolish end.
Someone said we’d found a fine heaven, but I thought we stood right above it, a place similar that didn’t have the tidiness and rounded corners that I pictured framing Eden. The risk wasn’t removed from this and maybe that made it worth dancing in; not without care, or without concern, but with an understanding that the knocks were pattern shifts to bring us closer in.
You told me that nowhere was as fine a destination as any as long as we still had breath there. I didn’t dare share that you stole mine, always with an ease that made me timid, blush, and wholly yours.