Event Horizon

How do I write about you.

I can say: You are a thing of dangerous and terrible beauty, gut-wrenching, half-seen in the tall grasses beneath the pine trees, vanishing into the shimmer of the afternoon heat haze. I can say: can you imagine what it’s like to sip wine from a bee’s mouth? Or become iron at the exact same moment someone else becomes North?

The coffee’s gone cold, she says: Are you okay?

I want to say: Did you ever see that film, Interstellar? Do you remember when the guy was swinging around the electric curve at the end of the universe, annihilated by the event horizon, all suffocating pressure and silent light? When everything broke into red-hot pieces until only the void remained, and still the bones of swallowed stars flew out from the abyss, because even nothing goes somewhere?

I stay silent, go to flick the switch on the kettle again. Feel again a spirit’s hair dragging like raw silk across my lips; wake to find strange eyes fashioned from fire and onyx at the end of the bed; see milk-pale wrists move in the dark like the kindest blades in the world; remember the sensation of being a heretic ablaze at the stake of my own spine.

You are the event horizon, you have become my gravity and suddenly falling – grazing knees and splitting lips – is pleasurable again. You have given me back my limbs, breathing flesh by candlelight into the hollow chapel of my ribs. You have given me back my fingertips, and the aching prettiness of my skull that will one day fall apart underground or crumble in one thousand degree crematorium heat. You have given back the Morning Star behind my eyes and the thin, soft line of white between my hair and the edge of my high collar. There are flowers blooming under my skin, gasping for one more mouthful of sweet pollen. Together we slide across celestial bodies, suspended in time that is not time, and I feel my face flush, then go cold as I understand something. I almost turn around and call for a square of glass to hold over a candle flame until it’s safe to look up…I think: of course, the pursuit of pure desire draws a halo around the moon and a shroud around the sun. You are an eclipse.

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