I think a lot about the last fight Pandora and I had, the final one that took her away from me this time. I don’t fear the centuries, not any longer, but I cannot think back on what happened without a hint of regret. At war forever with a half formed feeling of budding fear, never fully allowed to manifest over the secure knowledge that no matter what, all will end well.
Though I thought to give her something, anything. I think if I were to try to explain I would end up succumbing to the long-winded formal format of the lectures she so loathes to be the recipient of. Too many words are dangerous, and there are too many destructive words, too much room for verbose error.
So I give her this:
I spoke a stunted, primitive language;
you the prose of an angry poet,
your guarded hate a perilous barrier
against the surface of our every tone and gesture
that made them impossible to grasp.
Even though I desired to cling to
their sharp, jagged edges
because they were something,
anything, and you.
But I was too caught off guard
by the artistic Hellenism of your face.
Even as clipped words struck my body
like heavy drops of freezing rain.
Still, I wanted nothing more than to bridge the vast waste
with only a hand
to fix your slipped, forgotten sleeve.
My love, in a bar one night when you were 15 years old, I got drunk with a friend. I spoke of you, of nothing but you because I had seen you that day. I slurred of your beauty and of your intellect. And this friend looked at me, leaned into me, and said in his own drunken hiss, “Sed nōnne pater Lydiae vir dīves potensque est?”
Words to humble a man. To humiliate.
But you see, I knew, I just knew, that this wasn’t what would destroy me and you, and us.