there are two lovers.
I would like to feel very dry inside, deep in my belly, arid enough for my stomach to become full with brittle leaves and desert barren enough for your footfall through my life to sound as heavily as the floral, subterranean gong of a wooden bell. I want to hear the crisp, clean crunch of your bare soles through my glade, to feel the deer stir and look about with their wide, liquid chocolate and dolorous eyes. Their feet should stir at the chimes of your voice and give me the breadth of grace, frail fawn legs tottering and dancing, elegant as butterflies, elegant, as though the butterflies, blue as forget me knots, were flitting about the noses of all my spotted deer. Of all the things I desire, the wish most strong is the one where I live aided merely by air, daydreams, water and the moss-winged, lustrous little creatures that pin the world up to the stars with their fluttering, floating backs. Kin to Cinderella’s dressmakers they are, and the sky is like her cornflower skirts, a transparent, watercolour stretch of soft, shimmering fabric held up to measure against the jewels of the planets, the divine, long limbed and dusky ebony body of space. Oh what I would give for the poise of that princess, her perfect symmetry, the mathematical balance of her systems, the speckled cream of her galaxies, the musk and daisies smell exuded by her fine jaw and the way the beautiful butterflies come to her, rest on her palms as if recognising the precision of her revolving worlds. The colour of this song is just how I feel, saturated in lavender and pearl, caramel and soft greys, which is as best as I can describe the hue, though it is not exactly right and all the shades are mingled in my mind, like cobwebs shot through with one another.