True, we cannot stare into the sun, instead we turn about our gaze and look for ways it plays and runs through bare and lazy coils of fun; and I’ll admit, I never saw the sun like in those eyes of yours;

they swelled and held the earth’s attention, soil and roots and bark within them, marvel how as bright as brown, as dark as light, drawn deep, I’ll drown, and gladly sink below, beneath, beside, reside, subside, release,

and through the skylight, watch it pour the sun into those eyes of yours.

Spread butter on your paws and settle in, and drink your gin, wherein you’ll find another sin to claw at flaws upon your skin you cannot shake; they snake and scar, and follow you to wooden bars embodied by the final hour; the stiff and sudden empty power.

Something’s wrong. I’m sore from all the plucking and the tugging at my core, I’m stretched and taut and split and caught, and finally I’m seen; tearing at the stitches, my color itches for the switches that relax the strings that tie me, the cables laid inside me, they twist and try to hide me in a monochrome design.

I’m drawn (and live) in line. My face toward the wall until you will that I align, so turn my cheek, and have me speak the way that you define.

But I’m tired of all my wires, your desires, and this game, and you best believe I’ll draw upon this pain to fuel my flame.

I dare you to approach me. My poise is wearing thin. This trap longs to relieve you of the color in your skin.

A fairytale.

There was once a beautiful witch who had fallen in love with a man as equally beautiful, and in turn he too had fallen for her. But she was a jealous witch, and could not help but notice all the attention her beloved drew when out on the town. The girls would smile, chatter and giggle amongst themselves; eyes darting, daring. She tried to ignore it. Ignoring even the red desires that danced in the pulse of his neck, smirking across his face. Until one day she could take no more.

“I’m sorry, my love,” she said, crafting the tendrils of a thick green spell in great swirling motions above her head,

“I hope you see, why you can only have eyes for me.”

And struck upon him an envious curse that prevented him from touching anybody other than her. But it wasn’t enough.

“What promise is this if I cannot help but keep it?” He cried.

“What worth is there in my love for you if by magic I cannot but adhere?”

And so he would go out every night, doing his utmost to try defy the spell.

The jealous witch looked on. Bound to her, but how he tried to throw himself at every bare inch of skin or self respect. He drank, he danced, he laughed, he leered, but he could never touch, nor take, nor taste. Drunk and defeated, he’d return to her in the small hours of the morning, wreaking of his efforts. But they were, at least, his smells alone.

But love transcends the physical, and it was not long before his heart sought out a kinder soul. And though they knew they could never touch, he fell hard and true for a bright young girl one night in town, spending every night thereafter in deep and wild conversation; of life, of love, of fear, and fantasy. The jealous witch became more jealous still.

In the black of night she concocted another spell; one that would rob that pretty young thing of her every uniqueness, and become of the witch a perfect clone in all but soul. So that when he returned home, the witch welcomed him with the eyes, the voice, and the very touch of his young beloved.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said. She held her hand to his face.

“No, you don’t understand! You don’t know what she can do.”

He took her hand and made to move it from his flushing cheek. Then he paused. Feeling the electric touch of her fingertips. Her touch.

“But…how?” He said, his hands drawn in by the gravity of her waist.

“It’s impossible. Her curse…I can’t-”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said,

“I found a way. I found a way for you to love me.”

He took his hand from her waist, cupping her face in both hands.

“I have loved you forever,” he said, his stare intense,

“only we had not known it yet.”

She placed her hand on his, pressing it into the soft flesh of her cheeks. Then she drew him lower, and under the cotton of her clothes.

“Then know me now.” She said.

And he did. And for three moments, she was happy. Then he laid to rest.

But the witch could not remain so, toiling with the enveloping look in his eyes, and how she knew that gaze was not for her. Were she to transform right now, revealing herself from behind that pretty guise, his look would burn. And she too burned at the thought. Not being his star. Not being anything. Not being. Her eyes grew dark and green like the hot, muggy heart of the jungle, and she slipped from his side, snaking off into the terrible night. Returning later to bed, and drenched in red, she curled up close behind him.

“Darling,” he said, only half awake,

“for why are you so warm?”

“Rest now,” she said, feeling his clothes soak through,

“it’s my love, is all. My love for you.”

And they all lived happily ever after. Save for his bright young girl, who became forever asleep in sticky crimson, but moments after he had died inside a lie. And for the rest of his days he would never discover what became of the witch who tried to shackle his heart.

How reliant we become on being so connected My journey’s just begun, but I find myself affected by the absence of your chatter, and the beating of my heart, which has slowed to but a patter; I’m but a piece when we’re apart.

Though, why should all this matter when we’ve hardly got a clue? Each word’s designed to flatter as we toy with what is new. And yet, I hope you wonder how I’m not what you expected, and perhaps, like me, grow fonder every time that we’re connected.