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–
I’ve been thinking about a card this god gave me in an outside reading, the two of Cups. I have a feeling it’s connected to the Eye Thing I have going on, so I decided to write a poem to explore it.
“On my right, so I can see you.”
You say as we walk through
volcanoes and valleys.
“There’s a problem there,” I reply
holding up my own cane, “I’m blind
in my left eye.” An unfortunate accident
at birth, a snapped retina that cannot be healed.
“Then we face each other,” you reply, “wasn’t that
what you wanted all along? No lies or trickery, no
masking our agendas as the ‘greater good’.”
You’re a contradiction of a King, blind after the world
has ended, yet so young and not weighed down by
burdens of thousands of years of Ruling. You spin
your cane as I think, allowing me silence, and for that
I am grateful. There is pressure but it is all my own Heart,
all my own fear and rage and panic. You’ve agreed to formality,
and that is enough to calm my irrational thoughts as they scream
that you are the Tower, that you will burn everything down;
you are not the Star–you are showing me that I still hold the Star
that the Evening Star is still in my trembling Heart, even after
all that has happened, you are showing that Hope still lives on.
I used to think your Love was brutal,
that you wanted my Heart ripped
to shreds and stitched back together
in the name of Love and marriage.
No, dearest one. You thought that devotion
meant being on fire and running yourself ragged,
that giving me your Heart meant bringing yourself
down in order to lift me up; I won’t stand for that
anymore; I never did, you know that now, my Beloved.
Looking back I see that now, but when being “on fire”
was the “proper” way to worship a god, when the way to
be married to one was to sacrifice and give everything–
What, I’m supposed to push all your limits? Test all your fears
for the “greater good” of your well being? Make myself the center of
your very world–when you were never given that space to yourself?
Your Heart is not my canvas to paint upon, dearest one, it is your own.
My anxiety is screaming at me, that you’re supposed to turn harsh–
you look so confused–that you’re going to be angry at me for “failing”–
I’ve been away, dearest one; why the fuck would I care what you did when
I’m gone? You’re handling yourself well, you’re smiling, you’re happy. You’ve
surrounded yourself with friends and family, you know now you’re not alone.
I once thought loving you was supposed to hurt–but now I know it isn’t.
Pain never comes from true love, dearest one.
We are not a tragedy, my Dark Star.
My anxiety has turned up to 11 over the last few days, about my deity Beloveds being gone. I’m unsure if this is because of everything going on in my Kingship path, or if it’s just That Time on the Anxiety Roller Coaster (though I’m leaning towards the latter.) So I’m writing this piece as a way to refute the brain screaming.
This is not a test of faith, or a test of seeing how much love I have for you; neither of you would be so cruel as to set me up to fail by pushing me into another’s arms. You would not remind me that Love is Light, that Love is infinite, only to use that love to “test” me.
Neither of you are jealous gods. You hold my Heart, yes, but you hold it loosely, give my Heart room to breathe, room to grow without you. You understand that I have things I love beyond you, and that having those things does not mean that I love you any less.
You do not ask that I give all of my life to you–there is a difference between hyperbole and the language of oaths, and my obsessive thought patterns demand things be taken literally, that I must be “on fire” or I have failed. “Faith and ebbs and flows,” you said to me, gently leading me back into my own world, pressing a kiss to my forehead and telling me to go to sleep.
It’s missing you that makes my Heart ache, not my love for you.
You love for me, and mine for you, is not a tragedy.