I collect love , she said.
Dew hung off her glasses. She smiled like a primrose.
Me too, I whispered. But I guess I don’t so much collect it as I forage for it.
How does that work? she chimed
I go digging for bones that still have marrow. Suck it dry or make some broth. Hold on to the last membrane for the tiniest ounce of euphoria.
I used to cover myself in Eros’ butter. A firm, slippery substance, impervious to hate and greed. I was lithe and eager. Ready for love and all it’s glory.
Then I spent too much time in the sun. The butter turned sour. Molding into a faint ash. I couldn’t turn back time. Nothing would catch my affection.
So I took my cracked skin and started digging. At graves. At mournings. At war. At conflict.
I found the broken bones of restless hearts. Of unsanctioned dreams. And I sucked from them their last regrets.
That’s how I sustained myself.
Until I met you.