Owl to Severus; Owl to Deirdre

[diva_myron]

Date: Monday, 27 November 2000
Time: Very early in the morning-- in fact, 0437
Location: St Georges Rd, St Margarets, Middlesex
Rating: G

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Owl to Deirdre - later on in the day

[diva_myron]

How cruel are your words. But I do deserve them, don't I?

You didn't make me disappear. You were the reason I had to rise back to the surface. There, back there it is: lightless, soundless. So strange. My Mom used to love autumns.

I don't know what will happen next September. Maybe I'll be dead, but that's pathetic...

I cannot ask for your forgiveness, I do not deserve it. If you want, I'll disappear from the face of the earth for you. I will become a shadow that won't even haunt. Am I getting pathetic? Poets are pathetic, I heard. Even Ezra. (What to speak of Plath then? And the wolves howling?)

The winter's coming. How to stop our hearts from freezing down completely? Maybe sing, but my voice is hoarse since lately. Kir's been absent, as always. He's partying, I think. You do know Kir, do you? But what does it matter.

The remembrances sting my heart like needles. Can men cry? I cry. Would you still love-- is that disdain I can feel coming from you in my paranoiac forlornry? I'm not going to crumple down.

Your bed, I've looked at the lilies in my garden. I don't have House Elves (how can one exploit the poor creatures without feeling guilty?!), I've hand picked all the petals. There's not enough just yet, but I must finish soon, before you disappear-- like the morning star. I want to conserve the night.

You are beautiful, Deirdre.

~Myron

Owl to Myron - late that night

[deirdre_ivy]

Oh, Myron, I---

You are so kind, so kind that I am become terrified...I do believe, if it's not too much for me to say, that you deserve everything (everything) good I can give you. I do believe that you still haunt me, and that you'd haunt me onward and forever. I do believe that I want you to haunt me. I do believe that I want you. If you disappeared, I-

What I mean to say is--and how strange, how lightheaded and silly it sounds--is that I wanted you to ask, so that I could give. I daresay I've taken enough.

So ask me anything. Ask me to spin you an oak with red leaves, ask me to spin you warm skin and silk sheets and hot bubble baths while the wind rattles the frosted panes. Ask me to kiss soothe your throat and catch your tears.

but oh please don't let me hurt you hurt me again

Pathetic for your truth? Pathetic for your tears? Oh never, oh, but the disdain poisoning each verbatim is for myself, for making you feel this way. Don't you see? I am an artless coward.

and I'm slightly broken.

so if you could...be gentle?...handle me gingerly, and remember that my ribs are fractured like painted blue china.

And I'm selfish too, aren't I? Please don't listen to my cruel--don't let me love needle your heart. If I ruined your earnest soul, I think I would cry every eve

Can I tell you, then?

I don't want you to disappear.

Please be with me next September. Please be with me now.

I love you. Oh God! I love you. Please never go away.

~Deirdre Ivy Ophelia

Owl to Deirdre - Midnight

[diva_myron]

Disappearances, the spectral ones, all colours of the rainbow, and something-- something light and careless. With nothing burdening the shoulders (does it even have them?), and starry nights. And winter coming, the breath of it, I feel.

No- no, I shall not disappear. I am so: can you hear my heart beating? I will record it and send it with the letter, for you. In a silver music box, from me to you. You'll listen to it at nights, and once it stops - you'll know I'm dead. (Oh such horrible things I speak!)

But I will not die- not anymore. I have You to keep me alive I have your beauty to keep me alive, wondering how such Purity of the Aesthetic can exist in a world full of suffering and deaths. Maybe we were meant to save it from the madness. You and I, with starry eyes.

My heartbeats are yours. My dear Friend, my Muse, my Love-- it pierces through my heart, is it what I've been looking for forever? I cannot say, i cannot say. I do not deserve it. Confessions are for the bravehearted, and I, I'm lost in the haze of this webbed poetry, in the maze of exclusions and rabbit holes, where I hide from the world, and dream on my dreams... Soulmate.

I can hear it from here, your smile. I remembered it during the darkest hours of this Autumn.

Deirdre. Ivy. Ophelia. - you are the arctic lily. Aurora Borealis. (I once saw it in Lapland.)

Did you know that the broken souls cost more? They know the value of the Whole, and inside, they have the shining surface of the other. Unbroken. Don't mend it back. Just shed it. (Maybe I, too.)

We must dance, eternally, amidst the cloudy stars and whirling galaxies. Or maybe under icy stalactites, somewhere deep, underground. Where I could hear your breath, and the fluttering of your eyelashes.

(And the scream of the butterfly-- he said, he wanted to be a comet. And I remember.)

~Myron

P.S My love will wait under your porch, hidden from the late autumn rain- sighing quietly, and listening to you sleep.

[The letter is attached to a small package wrapped in brown paper. Inside is a silver box with the recording of Myron's heartbeat, magically charmed to keep up with the rhythm of Myron's heart.]

Owl to Myron - early next morning, before work.

[deirdre_ivy]

There's a certain pain to not seeing you, but I am ill-equipped to put to it a name. And yet, there are moments when I think I could spill pure gibberish on this page and you would respond with the purest understanding--understanding more complete than, indeed, my own.

You might realise that the things I feel for write to you are unique, for me. I might also warn you--along with the brokenness--that I am horrid at being on a pedestal. I always disappoint. And if I disappointed you... Perhaps there is something precious underneath my chipped skin, but I haven't yet uncovered it. I don't even know how to begin slipping out of these layers. They are grown around me, like the rings of an old tree around a river core of sap.

Sometimes I am convinced I am a snag in a forest of vibrant green...for all appearances alive, with jutting branches webbing at the sky, but really just a home for hollowness. And birds.

But you, you are a gardener in the best sense of the word. I coax plants from the soil; you buoy souls. You'll be gone again soon enough.

[Deirdre pauses. She abandons and returns to the page several times, to the point at which she is late for work; there are too many things to say to even contemplate a beginning. She's come too close to confession for a while.]

Might I invite you in from under my porch? Ah, I mean, for a cup of tea? To discern the reality of all of this, and to establish a certain closeness and distance, I suppose. Is it a bad idea to have you in my house?

~Deirdre

[She tucks the tiny box into her bag and Apparates to the Ministry.]