butter

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.

And?

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….

Until?

Until I met you.

 

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