The darkness takes a long time to grow accustomed to. Between the dark and the kiss there is a novel kind of forever. Nothing is the same, nor ever was.
I fall with a clang; I am born on a silver plate.
I feel the hot blood tarnish the sparkling dish; the last thing I saw before I departed, lit by august candles and reflecting the grimacing guard.
When I am taken to the girl who loved me, the silence of the court irritates me greatly.
I wait in the hot red and take in the gaps.
I savour their shock, I love their breath, I imbibe it indulgently.
All I know is the dust and the dark. There is no more ceremony.
This is real.
Her hands grasp my ears for far too long and I remember having a heartbeat.
I think I hear her sob. I would imagine she fancies tasting of peaches. I wonder what I taste like. But her lips are young and unremarkable, the painted skin caking over me whorishly.
I knew bloodier women.
I could tell her stories.