Questions and wishes are all I ever have for you, whispered like hot quick breaths that part your lips with otherwise perfect unintentions. You are an equal opposite, a beautiful genius from a different universe with familiar, silver, everythings, pink hearts, four leaf clovers, and shiny skin. You are a perfect treasure, locked away as you are for special occasions by the name I will not pronounce. When you come out on holidays, it's different. My holidays are a celebration of you; I like Hallowe'en, and the night we met, or any night at all when we dust off old feelings, instead of having to clean your delicate wings. I don't have a key, but I know of the stained, expensive, antique display case where you've been safely kept, tarnished with neglect and polished for the guests. It rained frogs that first day you escaped, and a digression took you to my dark little chair where I sang sadly, unaware of you, the secret admirer of my shadows who bravely put a porcelain hand inside mine and told me to stop remembering. We talked and harmonized like crickets throughout our self-imposed night, and when you slept I looked at a different, lonely face, until keeping you warm woke you up. I asked you how you got here. You told me you slipped through possessive fingers as they faltered with the fatigue of avarice, and followed my frogs to their leader. I kissed girl parts and turned you into a princess. When you accidentally cut yourself and cried, I fell in love with your sparkling tears like a greedy magpie.
You are frequently recaptured; coyly, there is always a trail you leave for others to follow, and it's pleasing to be desired and taken and hidden before your next opportunity to flee. The only thing that ever matters are happy endings. I pace to avoid other details, the distraction rushing the climax, and that's where you found me, purple and naked, chasing your butterflies. My hugs smell faintly of formaldehyde, filled as they are with trapped memories, carefully preserved in stories about my tired bed and rainy days. We sipped chamomile tea spiced with meaningful gazes, took off our best Sunday funeral clothes, and lapsed into bed.
My love has skin that aches like a beacon; I can always find it in the dark. My excuse is that you're soft, and tolerantly you suffer my fingers to stroke your shivering back while I smile and sigh and understand. I have no treasure like you. Everything I give you is bought with my need. I sucked love from my mother's breast, as I suckle it from yours now, tasting coral pink and jealousy green. I can never truly have you for long. You are a Pretty Blue Fetish. Nothing will ever be spared to get you back. You fulfill every desire, every need, and every prophecy, and your shelf is gathering dust without you. When you leave again for your intermittent captivity, my dishonest half-smile of courage will be betrayed by the way I stare at my feet. You are a Pretty Blue Fetish, which is a need greater than love, and larger than me.
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