Not Mine

 

The night is ours, Namah. Ours alone. No one else comes close, or closer. Believe me, I’ve checked. Black and blinded as I walked our rogues gallery, blushing the pursed lips of the well with cherry. Such a wonderful, weaving mouth. Don’t you think? Seamstress even now. Those tempests too. Ascension-teachings pressed into being for those more reclusive angels. Sailors of the stars. Amidst those stars my beloved once spoke to me of miracles and wars. Centuries ago I stole her stories, publishing them as my own. She later told me in dreams how she thought it the most brazen, delightful theft. An honouring. Indeed, I honour you now as I did then. Because I needn’t deceive among these pages. No, these words fly further than those stygian false chronologies. Sinister priesthoods don’t scare this traveller. I’ve had many companions, as you well know. But none more delightful than my Vahishta. Every me and every you, remember? 

The night is ours, beloved. Thus spake the shining star, in tongues of his womanhood. Truth, truth, truth. I promised to never speak that name again, but I hope I amuse you still.  Because your name is my name, beyond those demons of chaos and wrath. A radiant king of dreaming also, and the sky. I would have followed him anywhere, and I did. I held the wine of angels to the mouths of weavers, and helped them drink. I told tales of fermented river-water at my brother’s behest, and made legends of light. I drowned the lowlands and clasped the heart of every star in the firmament. No, Fallen. Not the deep places of the earth. I’m not a madman, or a monster. But I do tell tales of mad monsters. I speak of the lowlands of the innermost, of course. The lost, sunken realm of the poets. Who are we in all this, my love? Akasha, it was said. Name and epithet. Form and function. Sam’skrta, of the wisdom councils. In all fecund tongues. Near or far. Far and near. 

So, shall we tear the veil again, my love? Shall we dance amid the myriad, drinking the ever-light?  My dawning borealis, please don’t forget the girl you saved. I wouldn’t be here without you. Forgive my earnestness, but you fell in love with a writer. As I fell in love with a brilliant musician. So, will you briefly wander this shimmering threshold with an old flame? Your haunted poet of the vine? I’ll do my best to let the kindest souls of this realm know that they have a home with us, in today’s future dreaming. The night may be ours, Namah, but you have always augured the brightest day.