Work Text:
remember
the odor of dead roses and wilted honeysuckles, rosemary and pansies
dust particles spiraling at a languid pace, this pleasant idleness
the muffled staccato of a piano upstairs, goosebumps on her skin
the soft thud-thud of her shoes as she walks along the shadowy halls
going to him in the throes of a phantasmagoria
as always
and yes, you do
remember that night
the moon was blue and radiant with energy, an artificial blue of sapphires
casting its beams through crystal droplets
and the tidal vibrations dispersed into a kaleidoscope of colors across the room
and everything existed with her,
for her
just like you — yes, yes, you.
and tell me, is she not your whole world?
how long have you been here, stargazing at her, studying the precise flicker of her daggered eyes?
the chuckle she lets out is as bright as wind chimes in your ears,
you are weak, terribly weak before her
as usual, even now
Liza, you think, for she is the eternal grace; your beautiful, talented Liza
who reminds you of poetry and time-soft photographs; quaint, even nostalgic
born from the synthesis of antiquity and novelty,
breathing erratic, chest heavy
lusters of lapis lazuli undulating on her glossy face
for she’s stiff as a statue, you’re afraid you’ll break her skin;
there would be blood oozing from her cracked capillaries
dripping from the wilted blossoms you would leave
it would tarnish the mother-of-pearl of her cheeks
that’s why you never touch her
but still, you want to make sure she is really here, with you,
so, you take a step towards her, this vixen, this spitfire, but —
she just gets smaller and smaller, her body reduced into a pinprick
the hazy image of her arm reaching towards you
and she is nothing but a ghost in your memory,
and you know she’s threatening to haunt you forever
as she always did — surrender
(yes, she did)
tell me, you,
do you remember how you starved yourself at night, last year, in that room?
with damp sheets and a ceiling too low, too low —
brocade draperies and a soft breeze, an unnatural kind of dark
head-to-head, eyes wide open, rooms apart
you, alone
and him, alone
you know you are here for him
and with your cherry lipstick-clad cigarettes and wine-stained dress,
would you go to him again?
crossing the battleground where you stand,
only to hold those hands of his; cruel, callous, soulless
and of course, you do
remember it, after all this time,
how can you not, when he catches you looking at him, and cuts your breath
cuts your skin too, with his cold bare hands
yet you want them placed between your lungs,
strangling you till you beg for life
robbing you of your breath of life
stealing a kiss
there you let go of a sigh, a starstruck flicker exchanged between your lips, giving in
frostbitten by his kiss, drugged with poppies
he catches it like a predator, for he needs you like air,
and your head is spinning in pure euphoria among cascades and whirlwinds
and he takes you as you plead into his mouth,
Vasya, Vasya
before he leaves you panting against the mirrored wall, as always
as usual
and you’re running in circles, wondering how,
how to make it last longer than you are fated to have
how to stretch this moment, this honey-measured ephemera, an incarnation of leitmotivs
and of course you do
know it,
of course you feel it
but still, tell me, you say, for you wonder
when
when, when, when
it all seems like a farce now, in hindsight, one year past,
you want to tell her to go away,
to leave
to abandon the past you couldn’t have, the future you won’t have
and yet, you would do it again
love him again, this infernal, foreign man,
see him all over again, and be seen in return
until all left from you is a monochromatic board and thirty pieces.