fairy lights

cold in ways i can’t describe

I.
I want to write for you. Sitting at your desk, with my back to you. Only kind words, of course — it’s called a eulogy for a reason. I’ll waltz around it all, don’t you worry. I’d rather die first than embarass you now. You don’t have to say anything. That was never our style anyway, was it? I’ll read it back to you, still facing the wall. When I turn around I’ll tell by your eyes if I got it right.

II.
I never understood how much of a verb dying really is. I thought of it as a passive thing, a slipping away of life. But it’s erase; the scrapping of a manuscript; a truth almost too bitter: a part of me is relieved the family shame will be smothered by the pillows of a deathbed. The thought alone made me feel cold in ways I can’t describe. I’m ashamed of it. Like it’s my fault.

Like a flower in a vase. Where the air meets water, where the stem refracts. I always return there. I carry myself as an invitation, but just underneath sits the breakline. That’s where I find solace. I think it’s who I am. It feels easy there. But to hide it I have to dance amongst the people. Sway with them, cry with them. Pretend with them.

III.
The attic of my mind is streched by an infinite lawn. One million blades of green scattered with bright white daisies. Green and white, green and white, forever. She lives there, easy in the grass. Her name is Sixtine, kinda like the chapel. A thing of beauty. When she smiles, it’s a wink. When she winks, it’s a smile. She counts all the ways she knows you on her endless daisy petals. Her dresses trace her outlines in a laminar flow; she is undisrupted.

Like me, she could cut every word, chew you up, spit you out. Turn away. But she doesn’t. She’s ever unruffled. Airy, almost. Got a way of smoothing things over, marshmellows over a bonfire. Her tongue could tie knots in cherry stems, I’m sure of it. She’d grab your hand with no hesitation. Make you sweet tea without a second thought.

I imagine her front door to be framed by fairy lights all year round. She’d keep it open for you, always.

She’d say welcome in. And she would mean it.

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