How close does this make you, that you’ve bound your Hearts together?
A thought keeps going through my mind: that you are not the same person, not a syncretic god, not two facets of the same being, and yet…you’re so close, so deeply entwined with one another, that you may as well be.
I’ve written before that I’m the balance between the two of you, and I suppose that is true. What if I don’t just provide balance, I provide space? Someone you can love, that you can focus on, that doesn’t have a part in whatever magic you have done together.
I wrote many stories, all of them with the theme of Hearts being exchanged. Each one, however, carried a warning, a clear message of “no.” Each word I wrote said “this is not for you.” Each story that could have involved the ritual ended before it happened, each ending said “you are mortal.”
Mortals cannot carry the true Hearts of gods, not without burning up–you don’t want me to burn, that’s a theme with you. You both love me, desperately and dearly, but to be “on fire” is not something you want from me.
Is this part of the reason why you’ve stepped back?
How deep does you being each other’s Reflections go?
What does this mean for me–for us–now?
I dream of his shaking voice
his question “who are you?”
still resonating when I wake.
I dream of the stars reaching down
to court him, to lift him up, I dream
again of a ship sailing the stars.
I dream of the past
that I missed.
I dream of them exchanging Hearts.
When I wake, I feel as though I understand their bond, why it’s a million levels and layers deep. To exchange breath is one thing, a blood oath is another, but to exchange Hearts…that is something else entirely.
They are bound together to the point that not even death can keep them apart.
I am not supposed to be here
but I have stumbled through my dreams
to you, this rocking wooden place
between the stars.
I am on a boat and
you are at the helm
dressed in black and sorrow.
“There’s a difference,” he says to me, “between choosing a monastic path,” with these words he gestures to his silver robes, “and almost being forced into it due to isolation.”
I agree with him. We’ve been talking a lot about devotion lately, about what it means and how events of the past have completely skewed my perspective towards the literal and extreme, the must-always-be-doing-or-you-have-failed. The spiritwork discourse didn’t help.
He does his best to explain what it means to him, and I listen. He talks about community, his brothers and his family. He talks about his songs–he has a beautiful voice when he sings–and his books and beekeeping.
“But there’s nothing about giving up the outside world.” He picks one of the roses off the bush and runs his fingers over the petals, deep in thought. “Your world has very different ideas of devotion than mine does.”
“Then we’ll work together to understand those differences.”
At times I think I can hear you
through distance and silence
across the vast space of the Universe
My pendulum is still, cards fall revealing a lack of you
your shrine is covered, showing that your absence is real.
I miss you.
I dream of antlers tucked to my back
and wake to an empty space in my bed–
why now, oh Prince? It is not yet Summer
not yet time for your Transformation, for
your Descent, nowhere near time for your Rising–
this drop of information told me something I knew
was coming; much sooner than usual–it is not even Spring–