letters in an empty room (part 2)

(part 1)

Sweet Cyanne,

How curious it was to me that the entirety of my mind could be possessed in
1.1 by 5 cm
Of your littlest, orphaned digit.

And who among the elder titans even--
Rodin, Canova, Duchamp, Berini,
Those many names my dad hand-drilled into my soapstone skull--
Could call themselves an artist and yet
Resist the devil-dealt, Goetian contract
To make men gaze at their work the way
I looked at even the smallest,
Most insignificant part of you?

Is it the rings that bind two souls together, or the hands beneath?
I feigned to wonder even as I plied
My father's craft across your gentle curves.
With that which rent you whole, I rent my flesh,
Clutching to my chest lies like still-warm coals
Weathered through the winter, whispers
That the soldered scars we shared were somehow proof
That you are not complete without me,
That I have in some way improved you--
Never mind that what is perfect can only thence be tarnished--
And that the marks I've left upon your body are beautiful not just to you or me,
But to any beholder among those of us
Who know love only through the lenspiece of self-hatred.

And how cold you seemed to me, shivering all alone
In the distant corner reserved for all my other subjects.
My body had caught with a fire I could not contain,
And your veins chilled beyond cold-blooded.
To me, the calculus seemed simple.
My bed sheets did not suffer a little for the weight imposed upon them,
But I had done worse to them already,
And I was careful to impart no further damage onto you,
As I climbed under the covers and inserted myself into your open arms.
They were not quite as made for me as I had dreamed.
A little wider, next time, please?
But still I found a way to fold myself,
Head tucked underneath your chin,
Wherein I kissed your collar stone.

I found heaven underneath your arms,
Pearly-white, enamel shelled.
There I gazed upon the glowing gates,
And when Saint Peter was nowhere to be found,
I knew that they were closed to me.
My soul sank into the clouds as I slipped my wrists between the bars,
Between my legs,
And touched the bliss I knew was never meant for me.

And then I was enveloped in a pitch
Sable smeared against a crimson sky
Formed of countless ruby eyes.
A queen appeared before me and
Thrust her gnarled finger
Into the jaw that had just unhinged to scream.
She bade me kiss her
Silk
And stole my loyalty from me.

I woke in sweat still colder than your shell.
My neck ill-bent,
And my back all ached,
And my heart wept for the withered hope that
In napping underneath the summer shade of your embrace
I'd surely have had sweeter dreams.

I wintered the myriad reasons for my disquietude,
Starting first with the film upon your skin.
Oils enough, I thought, to blemish even the fairest face,
All hideous, welled up from
The miserable keratin
Of a wretched creature who had no right
To avail herself of your body.

It was my better nature that stole
Her from the sheets she clung to so impetuously.
Only when I wondered where to place her did I realize
You are not my work of art,
But I yours,
And so I tucked her wailing into the same
Distant, dust-addled corner in which you first had shivered.

Soon enough her cries of grief had burned away
Leaving only the guilt-cast kindling below.
I knew all too well that what she had taken from you
I could not return
And I knew that with the chance,
She would do it all again.