….and I as Himeros
Look! Look what I can do, in love!
I can make you mythical -
I can liken you to the old gods,
Sew you into their stories with songs and scriptures of my own.
I can taste the name “Persephone” and spit its meaning to the side – Bringer of Death leaves a bad taste in my mouth –
And press it into the floor, the cigarette I said I’d quit.
When I think of you, I taste pomegranates.
Yes, I know what that implies, but they are fresh and enticing And not at all foreboding when I’m the one writing.
I’d prefer not to write myself in - just you, just you for now.
Your glory, your honor,
Your voice as big as the thunder, your hands as broad as the rain. You fill every sound at once, you touch every inch of my body. You wash me in yellow light.
This is how it is, in actuality: my love is the sun, and I am Icarus. That is my eternal paradox, and that is how it has gone every time so far. Candles in the wind and flash-bangs in the dark,
Half empty and more than half empty glasses that I drank without asking first. I have always been too trusting, too fond of gliding on the silk whisper of new faith.
By now, I would have launched twenty-thousand ships
and sent as many men to their deaths.
All for my heart, all for naught. No lessons learned; an idealist to the end.
Perhaps I’ll write us our own myth,
“The Time Cassandra Ignored Her Own Prophecy.”
Call me Pessimist, or call me Oracle.
I have not been wrong yet.