Page 54 of Into the Heartless Wood
He is so very close now.
He smells of ink,
of cinnamon.
I want
to trace his eyes with my fingers.
I want
him closer.
But. “I cannot be what you wish me to be, just because you wish it.”
“What doyouwish to be?”
He stares at me
and I stare at him
and it feels as if
all the world
holds its breath
waiting
for my answer.
He is beautiful and fragile.
His soul is so strong.
I say: “Something new.”
He smiles. “Then that’s what you will be.”
He lets go of my hand.
He picks up the cello.
He plays and he plays
and I try
to wind his music up inside of me,
enough to fill the hollow place
where the soul I do not have
ought to dwell.
I want to keep him here forever
in my fortress of trees.
