What if it is true that the most (terribly) beautiful work I do is created inside of you? That I’ve made an artform out of weaving the silver spider threads that bind us, that I’ve carved a temple within the confines of our interlocked fingers? That the purest expression of my heart are the pictures of the make believe world that I’ve pasted over your windows to block the real view?
I built a house with many floors, and pretty gilded mirrors to reflect your pretty face, with curious animals and secret stairwells and impossible gardens, a place with decadent rituals and intricate symbols of our love, and then
I left you there.
I left you there, wandering the hallways chasing reflections in mirrors in a house that is falling down around you because that house is made of my bones, and
my bones back.