Museum

Kissed by fire, touched by lightning. Eyes like the warmth of a grey monsoon summer sky. Clouds thundering, grumbling. About to burst forth into a downpour of fresh rain from the heavens. Heaven sent. That was it. That was her.

Smile like a thousand splendid suns. Cheekbones high and collarbones sharp. Hands soft, slender. Tender.

Hand-sculpted by the lord of Olympus. Welded in the forges of Hephaestus. Watched over by the jealous eyes of Hera and her minions. Heart raging with the passion of Ares. Eyes twinkling with the light of Apollo’s sun chariots. Body lithe like Artemis’s.

Alcohol on the tip of his tongue, fingers curling into, sinking into the soft, grey carpet. Air conditioner humming in the background. Terrariums in empty alcohol bottles. Green all around. Lights twinkling underneath the windows.

Sometimes you just don’t know. Sometimes you’re wrong. You’re afraid. You’re uncertain. It is so easy to die alone. So hard to live a life that is full, and filled with people you love and who love you. 

Sometimes you’re afraid. Sometimes you have feelings. Sometimes those feelings don’t make sense. Sometimes you try to convince yourselves. And you’re wrong. And you’re right.

You’re all alone. Darkness coming towards you. Grasping hands. Hungry hands. Reaching. Clasping. Starving.

You’re all alone. Drowning in darkness. I am the black. In the dark. Everything soothing. Everything wailing. Everything crying. All falls to dust. Turns to ash. Nothing remains. Nothing can remain. Everything turns to ash and dust and burns down.

In harmony with god. Don’t have a choice.

Who are you. A contradiction. A complexity. An uncertainty. You are unsure. You are unaware.

I am the pope. I am Jesus, I am Mohammad, I am Yahweh. I am everyone and everything that ever existed and ever will, and I am nothing. You are me. I am you. We do not exist. Nothing matters and nothing ever has.

Yet.

Yet, when she smiles it lights up the room, her eyes are possessed by a beautiful grey energy. Blue and deep, waxing poetic. Lips soft and tender. Moist.

Nothing matters. Everything dies and crumples and fades. There is no more. There can never be.

Fruity pebbles. Soft, sugary. Happy. Clouds waving high in the sky. Eyes hearing screams. Ears smelling decay. Nose seeing black. Darkness crawling up nostrils, racing, speeding.

Burp in his chest.

Eyes filled with love and longing. Heart racing. Thoughts chasing. Fear and fire and desire. Tingling through his skin. Eyes buzzing. Not daring to turn and look lest it be taken the wrong way.

People go to a museum to appreciate art. Most don’t think of stealing it. To look and appreciate, be beautiful. Things of this earth keep us rooted to it. Wrinkles. Aged. Dust. Dirt. Digging. Dying. Darkness. Shaded. Conquered. Overcome.

Beauty fills the heart with longing. Fills the heart with a fullness that seethes and creeps and curls up the lips, shines, twinkles in the eyes, causes the corners of eyes to wrinkle with delight.

She was beautiful. Everything is beautiful. Life