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Do I make gods out of lovers?
I watch myself purse my lips in frustration. Cheeks hollowing in. Laugh-lines decimated. I force each rosy pilgrim apart in a brave, embittered exhalation. An act of devotion twisted by sacrilege.
The woman in the mirror is strange to me. Her hair is wild from too much pulling and twisting. There is a scattering of freckles high on each cheekbone. A furious, cat-like wreck.
She appears to me wan, dusky-eyed and unkempt. The low desert light blooming within the orbital bones, a vision refracted in Venetian plaster. A figment trapped, perpetually haunting herself.
I think of them then. The last two, specifically. The ruiner and the dreamer. Now, as my vision narrows, she sours before me. A puckish little thing. Desperate and desirous. Once more, the apparition tries at neutrality. Sans succès. The scene erodes, and I am thrust into memory.
The ruiner prized perfection over everything alive. Movie star tall. His body braced against some weather-beaten structure. The forearm cradling his skull, the axis of my entire world. I rarely listen when he speaks. His intelligence alive but without humor. The ruiner always right.
I remember my insignificance before him. How he detested me for falling under his spell. His mouth full, eyes soulful. Cheekbones as jagged as his thoughts. Lean muscle packed evenly on his frame. Whenever I was caught staring, I’d receive a look straight from hell. How I welcomed hell.
The ruiner despised my touch. For years, I’d steal his kiss. Every day a heist. His mouth the fallen star in the palm of my hand. Cold, inert, glittering. When he loved me, he’d count until I exceeded my quota. An allotment of kisses.
When he loathed me, he’d snarl over my inability to love His way. I’d hang on, every word a prayer. Raging at my unfettered hunger. For daring to kiss a god.
I think of the ruiner often. I picture him in a leather jacket, worn and black. He’s wearing Tom Ford. I’m drunk off oud and thunder. I watch as he glares out into the world. An arresting devastation.
I consider approaching him when She appears. A woman in heavy boots. Sleeker than the blade at my throat. When She fills his vision, his eyes warm and soften. The way they once did for me. I wonder when their paths will cross. I envy Her the adventure of loving him.
My heart rebreaks, and I, stooping to pick up the pieces, hammer away until the light in my eyes goes out. Jagged little pills. Endless amber pools. I remember then, my promise. To walk this world alone.
My soul finds respite in the bookstore. The ugly, exposed beams a framework for my imagination. Suspended in the belly of a leviathan. Seeking sanctuary. Too scalded by life to function. Wounded. Wielding books to soothe, to distract.
When in walks the dreamer. I watch in fascination as reality unravels. Set pieces fall and order is razed. The choir shuffles out without compunction. A beam collapses; the windbag director meets an untimely demise. The universe taking me by the scruff of the neck like some misbegotten cub. The stars pulling my hair out. My dead ancestors pissing themselves.
I can’t stop staring at the motherfucker. Dark-haired, moving with purpose. The line of his shoulders and the narrow hips, something my eyes cling to. I duck into the stacks. I forget how to breathe. My heart gallops. Fuck, it hurts. Smacks of betrayal. I am soaring.
The dreamer smiles like he’s paid to do it. He likes holding eye contact. His mouth moves beautifully when he speaks. It’s a tiny bit hypnotizing. I develop a game that requires hyperfocus. I listen intently to what he has to say. It’s a terrible idea. I love what he has to say.
He’s quick, articulate. His mind, Promethean. The first time he makes me laugh, my instinct is to break his jaw. One step forward, a slip that loads my hip, the right hook. I blink the thought away. I blink once more, and I’m in his bed.
The dreamer, at every turn, makes me wish to exist. He excites me. He flirts with my flight response. I feel his eyes marking every weak joint, every hastily repaired seam. I am fragile, petrified; I trust him implicitly. I want to play. I want to fight. I want to give chase.
When the dreamer departs the goodbye is death-sweet. We live in separate time zones. I read his words every morning. Words, not meant for me. The dreamer disseminating his visions. Hellbent on rebuilding the world, in love with the path that diverts from my own.
I picture the dreamer often. Naked, shredded, always at play, at motion, striking off into lands uncharted. His words hot on my jaw, every breath a resuscitation. A spark finding tallow within a soul long since calcified.
I became the recalcitrant creature in his orbit, a moon unworthy of the name. Punctuated with craters and waterless seas, luminous only when seated in his gaze.
It’s strange to think, I make gods out of lovers.
The strange woman leans in as if for a kiss. Her breath blooms into a silvery cloud. I can map the freckles marring her face. The brooding half-moons made furious by glints of green and gold. The upper lip brutal, the bottom lip pillowy and amorphous.
“Darling,” I remind her, “you’re a fucking atheist.”
Pietà Occulta | 1944 AZ USA 11.21.25