' i will come back from the dead for you . '
strawberries left together too long end up sour, end up rotten.
solar eclipse , as in, the sun falls asleep and the world forgets it. as in, midsummer turns into a collection of shivering days, turns into the echoes of the jaws of a suitcase clicking closed. this home of yours is nothing more than an assortment of nimble enchantments, vivid breezes and wooden floors that breathe with you, dust winds wisped into circlets. but the story : something larger than life.
you remember saying something about wanting to be haunted, but not like this, not on terms that are not your own. you stand in front of stained glass, halcyon - tinted, thinking how / living here / is nothing less than an apocalypse in waiting. how does it feel, being fixated in your own mistakes ? how they haunt as easily as the past does ? THERE ARE EYES THAT CAN EAT YOU ALIVE, we say, in unison, but can’t remember where we heard it. this place, this haunt turned home runs in a cycle of fear / hope / fear. a repetition to keep you dizzy, disoriented, unsettled, always searching for something else, something new, to distract from the distance, from the something hymning within its wild iris. here, your twin stands beside you, and swears her own vigils and omens, twists her own destiny in daisy chain-links. your sister, who is brave and clever and kind, swears her eternity , to you . how do you hold something like this ? unyielding trust , unconditional love ? how do you grasp it, without shaking ?
❛ and here i thought i was strictly forbidden to raise the undead ! ❜ your elbow juts softly into hers, a poor attempt in bringing her signature optimism back into the conversation. instead, the vision comes in a flash : what would you do without her ? it is all world-weariness, where someone says both of your names and they feel like palindromes of one another – different but the same, a story told frontwards and backwards and still it is the same, it is always and forever the same. but isn’t that how everything is, until it isn’t, any longer ?
you dream this, and it is another life, a not-you, not-her. but there is something here, something to be made of this. power lines and tree fronts, crowding the sky the same way – journals and questions and something hiding within them, as in, what does this story bring us to ? what have we made of each other ? when did the future begin to beckon less like coloured glory, and more like a martyrdom ? when did the dreams rise just out of reach, still glistening, still beaming ?
in this not-world, for another chance, what would you forgive ? in this town that holds every lotus-eater that sits in their creaking rocking chairs, wildflower honey smeared across the corners of their mouths – here, where they did nothing to save her. where the poppies that line the battlefield are wilted, the sky yawns and stars fall burning to the ground. you do not know how much you could forgive, in a place like this.but here, amongst the pines, the both of you are still summer-young, still sunburnt and sunbitten. legends and futures with too many teeth can wait for another day. ❛ how about we leave the necromancy to the professionals and go for an ice-pop ? grunkle stan hides all the cherry ones at the bottom … ❜ you hold out your palm, and suddenly it is i will always save you . you will always save me . it will never be another way . and like this, it is easier to hold, between your fingers, like a promise. hours later, when the sun meets the horizon for another dusk, every last word between you is laughter. here, you say in unison : THE FUTURE IS OURS, AND WE WILL TAKE IT IN OUR HANDS AND CALL IT OUR OWN.
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