Never is what I promised you. Never fight, never struggle, never pull you into the bitter seduction of my cause.
I melted like ice on a winter's day--slowly trickling where I was touched by something warmer than myself. You are not what melts the life from my body.
I do not die when you kill me.
I am the sweat of your body, the moisture of your tongue, the tears you do not shed.
Say I evaporated and became the wind. Would the sound of me in the branches of the trees be enough? Would you say I broke my promise? Or would you breathe me in? Let me sting your lungs? Would you laugh then, like you sometimes did? The broken sound that made me think of tears and death.
I never meant to seduce you. When I pressed my face to your shoulder and said I loved you, I only meant to grieve. I only meant for you to stroke my hair and call me a fool. I never expected that you would kiss my mouth and use your hands to speak to my skin.
Desire, need, silence.
Did you know we would be familiar?
I've tasted you before, had you before.
We were one soul once, like Plato's myth, we existed, never parting.
But I promised you freedom.
Why did you come back? Did you miss my melting? Did you remember we were one?
You wrote your scorn on my body and it burned. I steamed. I screamed.
I became the bitter rain. You thought I lashed out at you. But really I wanted you to open your mouth and swallow me. I wanted to soak you. I--
I wanted me, which is you, to be a balm.
Did I break my promise? I didn't mean to.
You do not make the life melt from my body.