"you must do me a drawing of Sibyl..."

the light shifted between my blinds

as the sun settled into night,

you gazed upon lowering beams, upon me.

fingers forming a frame around my figure

i wish i could take a picture of you, but alas

 

i wish i rose with resolve

silhouette edged in gold, 

lips slanted by shadows

& you could remember me there

in the glow of what felt holy

 

but alas, conscience is cowardice,

& i am destined to be Sibyl.

a rising prodigy amidst unsatisfying mundanity,

an armoire of many faces in my arsenal

manifesting me, as all heroines, in one

 

flower-like, constantly growing

in my own world, ignorant

of my own power, until told 

my fragrance is potent. that pollen seeps

from my tongue in silver, & suddenly

 

i became conscious. 

 

my art rendered itself meaningless,

consumed by reality, tangibility, you.

you became Love, became beauty

& every secret, every face, an offering.

i should have known they were unwanted

 

solely longing for performance &

with our newfound knowledge, sacrality

slipped from my swollen fingers

now deemed undesirable in sacrilege

it is only sacred things worth touching. 

 

“…I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken, pathetic words.”