DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
How many times would he lose the same people? What game was this? Was it a slow, unwinding torture, to have them for so little, and then for it all to fade? For some, a gradual departure, for others, a quick demise, with nothing for him to do? Taken and taken and taken until there was naught left? Nowhere for him to go or follow, to shelter and protect, to offer sanctuary and refuge; a mere witness, a bystander, in the strokes and eaves of this unrelenting domain. He could’ve reached and denied, but to what end? He could’ve kept her there longer, but for what purpose? He could’ve tucked her under his massive wings, but she never would’ve flown again. And for all those times where he’d been told to selfishly snag and claw, to demand, to do something other than riddle and rankle around his own life like a god damned fool, this was empty and fathomless and he couldn’t change any of it.
The depths were coming up. He could feel them lingering at his sides, rampaging through like an endless sea; a whisper in the clarity of everything else. Where he might drown in his agony. Where he might perish in his anguish. Where he might drift away, and no one would care because there wouldn’t be anyone left. Where he might sink beneath waves and currents, go back to a time of moonlit tides and barefoot races, before any of this pain segmented and lodged itself deep into his soul, and refused to leave.
Her arms opened and closed around him and he tried to do the same – to offer warmth and strength and dominion when he didn’t feel it anymore, when the cold was beginning to seep into his lungs and drag him downward. He grasped and held, one last round of sanctuaries, and wished for hours where it’d only been the Harpy, where they were silly and stupid and not unfolded into these echoes and fringes.
But it was the were, and everything else with it, that ultimately broke his heart. Those age-old anthems returned; ancient and terrible. Not enough, not enough, not enough. They were silent shudders in his frame, tremors in his chest, harpoons in his ribs, whispers in the collected wake. “I love you,” a hushed rumble, choking back on so many other filaments and figments; but he’d said them all before. They hadn’t changed. Lips pressed against her hairline, another rise of torment. “Stay safe,” before he released her.
The depths were coming up. He could feel them lingering at his sides, rampaging through like an endless sea; a whisper in the clarity of everything else. Where he might drown in his agony. Where he might perish in his anguish. Where he might drift away, and no one would care because there wouldn’t be anyone left. Where he might sink beneath waves and currents, go back to a time of moonlit tides and barefoot races, before any of this pain segmented and lodged itself deep into his soul, and refused to leave.
Her arms opened and closed around him and he tried to do the same – to offer warmth and strength and dominion when he didn’t feel it anymore, when the cold was beginning to seep into his lungs and drag him downward. He grasped and held, one last round of sanctuaries, and wished for hours where it’d only been the Harpy, where they were silly and stupid and not unfolded into these echoes and fringes.
But it was the were, and everything else with it, that ultimately broke his heart. Those age-old anthems returned; ancient and terrible. Not enough, not enough, not enough. They were silent shudders in his frame, tremors in his chest, harpoons in his ribs, whispers in the collected wake. “I love you,” a hushed rumble, choking back on so many other filaments and figments; but he’d said them all before. They hadn’t changed. Lips pressed against her hairline, another rise of torment. “Stay safe,” before he released her.
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
