in another life, we met sooner.

you had lived in the house by the sea, salt and brine tangled in your soft curls and every time i came to visit you would smile and drag me into the surf. it felt right to laugh and hold your hand, the salt water couldn't wash away the black stains on your hands from the inkwell in your father's study that you weren't meant to touch. we pressed our fingerprints into a pebble and tossed it out to sea.

in another life, we were closer.

you'd been reading on the train, and there were no seats left but the one next to you. why no one had sat next to the charming girl with the book, i had no idea. i sat down next to you. we talked so long we missed our stop, but i walked with you all the way until you turned at the fence with the hanging roses and bade me farewell. your cat came out to greet me after you left. he always knew when i was coming.

in another life, i was different.

you'd been our prisoner, a filthy woman dressed in soiled rags and mud-smeared cheeks. i never hurt you -  no i could never, those eyes - but i could never quite save you either. you never told me what you'd done. i never asked. just handed you your tray of food and sat with my back up against the iron bars, telling you stories from my childhood until you went to sleep. i learned later that you had killed the sherrif's son. clever girl.

in another life, you were frightening.

we were comrades, you and i, but your golden hoops spoke volumes about the confidence in which you screamed for the cannons to fire - i possessed the amount of swagger that you could've lent me with a kiss and then stolen it back. you never took hostages, no, they could join or they would be left to drown. but you never left the children. the women were questionable, for you feared another like yourself stealing your crew away, the only family you had left. i heard you crying once, but never spoke a word of it.

in another life, we were wild.

you disliked me at first. but we were children, and children change their minds quickly. modesty was never our concern as you taught me how to climb trees, how to look for tracks or how to catch a rabbit (i was always far too squeamish for the skinning part, and so were you so we had to ask your mother). it didn't feel like we grew up, but the trees that reached the sky somehow seemed closer to the ground now. i kissed you for the first time hidden in their foliage.

in another life, you dreamed.

you dreamed of earthquakes as they shook the ground, you dreamed of lightning and thunder - your uncle's home was scorched and his flock of sheep bleated like dying men - you dreamed of sunlight strong enough to make poseidon shrivel to a husk of a god if he ever set foot on land, and the drought made harvests difficult. you dreamed and dreamed, but all i could do was watch and hold your hand. for you dreamt, but were never asleep.

in another life, i was quiet.

we were so similar then - smart, humble, and with a resilience that kept our backs as straight as the ladies who wore corsets in the past. you would show me your work and i'd be delighted, all the time we spent together, like a holiday in a place we already knew as home. but i stayed quiet. i didn't understand how love could stand further than the constraints of a bearable marriage between a man and woman. you left. i didn't blame you.

in another life, we grew old.

it seemed improbable, these cursory turns of events that we'd come to associate with falling in love. it was slow that time - stolen glances and long drawn out discussions about what we wanted to become. it took months for me to dare to hold your hand. you'd speak your mother's native tongue as you ran your fingers through my hair, and i would touch your fingers to my lips, one by one. we were married for fifty years, and i kept sunflowers next to your bed.

in another life, we never met.

countless times, little coincidences would add up, but neither of us noticed each other. it wasn't just one life, this was the reality of dozens of cycles. like a butterfly's wing, i'd see you in a crowd, but by the time you turned around i'd already be gone. it was cruel. sometimes i lived alone. you got married once, and you were happy - but i didn't see the wedding, how could i have? as often as our paths intersected, we remained utterly and hopelessly parallel.

in another life, another life, going round and round, this game of the gods to see how we met, how we grew, how we loved - no matter.

we can't remember those other lives, so we'll live this one like it's the first. every time i see your words, i smile. i think you smiled back too.

meine Liebe, du erinnerst mich an schönheit und blassrosa rosen

    i want to remember this phrase so that i can whisper it to you under the cotton-candy sunsets while you rest your head on my shoulders as we laze on your valencian beaches, or in our italian cottage as we sip honey drinks with petals floating in them. i want to remember this phrase so that i can mumble it under my breath as i thread geraniums into your crown of braids, you're quiet and still, and i don't know if you can hear me, but just this closeness is enough to make my heart melt into songs that you keep in your feel-good playlists - they play in my head as i breathe you in, the flowers suddenly became so much beautiful when you pointed them out to me.

    Schlaf gut und träume in der sanften Umarmung dieser rosa Wolken

    rose petal baths can't compare to the comfort you give me, your palms are as soft as pink camellias and the lingering touches you give me are like an emotional aphrodisiac - i can't get enough of this feeling. my head feels like it's stuck in those cotton-candy clouds, this is a dream and i never want to wake up from you. orchids flourish in every corner of your room - you love life and la pachamama smiles on you so fondly that i can't help but think you're her favourite by far. tulip-printed skirts and hyacinths in your front garden, cherry blossom hairpins and the carnation you slipped behind my ear when i closed my eyes for a moment - it's all blush and gentle gazes when i'm with you.

    Ihr Lächeln erfüllt mich mit Liebe und Anbetung für alles, was uns zusammengebracht hat

Menschen, die Blumen lieben, 

können nicht schlecht sein, 

sagt man.

    Mein Engel, meine Liebe, Göttin meiner Träume und all das, was gut und rein ist

ich liebe dich

ill-starred child Achilles, a child no longer, comes to greet you – his rage and despair are things you know somewhat of, while i am hailed by Patroclus, lover supporter, fighter. we meet, pair and pair, and gravity does the rest, pulling me into your sweet embrace as the fallen heroes look on – understanding and empathy rich in the blacks of their eyes. they retreat towards Elysium, but we stay here a little longer.

    it is dark but it is light, an inscrutable glow coming from the distance as if we were standing in a cavern, yet also beneath our very feet. i stroke your hair and hold my hand at your cheek; you lean into it with a warmth that fills my heart with both longing and indescribably affection simultaneously. we’re dressed simply, flowing white dresses, creases in all the right places, and while your golden halo offsets your eyes, my starlight anklets make my footfalls lighter – light enough that should i leap suddenly, i would hang suspended in the air for a moment or two.

    Elysium waits patiently, and while we both know your sunflower fields and italian sunshine are just a few steps away, we stay like this, quiet but not silent. foreheads touching, gentle murmuring, proclamations of love and fulfilled promises, whispers of poetry from years gone by; “they built us beautiful, darling,” “i dreamt of you,” “maybe it was a memory”. you smell like home; sea salt, flowers and you. just you. i breathe you in and i am home.

    you take my hand in yours and guide us towards the light. we’re walking but with none of the practiced serenity of Achilles and Patroclus – it’s slow, drawn out, as if we might lose each other when we are to be enveloped in this perfect heavenly paradise. but i draw comfort form your touch, your nails no longer have rings of soil from our garden, but i’m sure if you want them to return in Elysium, they shall. as we approach, our adornments glow brighter – your halo incandescent, yet it takes no effort to behold its radiance, nor do i have to squint when i look at you, and my anklets shine bright and silver as Athene’s flashing gaze, a galaxy worlds away resting on my limbs. i glance at you and you catch my gaze and smile – squeeze my hand – and we enter the light.

    i utter a last poetic prayer to you, and we are gone.

    my love, i love you more than the sunset loves the clouds.

they're young, but old enough to know that this world is not made for them. so they make their own world; spinning idioms and beauty into their words and songs, tunes springing forth from pursed lips and mouths made for smiling, and people stop to listen. soft and honest, acoustic, their songs are like sunshine, and their lyrics speak of goddesses, dreams and starlight. slowly but surely, they move across the nations, their path steady and clear in their minds. for they seek italian fields filled with sunflowers and ladybugs - they've dreamed of it since they were young and new to loving each other. but now they've had years of practice and so they sing to each other as they walk, little gentle tunes of affection and ethereal worship, to the land and to one another.

"all that glitters is not gold," she sings, "but i see the flecks in your eyes and know you are precious to me, darling."

"all road lead to rome, and i'll be sure to meet you under its marble pillars and holy dreams."

"we had wings made of fire and we were teaching the earth how to love-"

she smiles and continues the line, "maybe it was a memory."

every tide has its ebb, but darling, i'll just flow right back into you.

every cloud has a silver lining, you traced it with your stolen moonlight just for me.

how long will it take for me to hear your voice, your breath brushing against my ear as we hug for the first time? how long will it take for me to hold your hand as we roam through fields of gold and green? how will we live out our lives knowing we are miles apart, across the sea and dark mirroring light - shall i tell you your moon will look beautiful tonight?

soon, my love, wait a little more and i’ll be able to hold you in my arms - we’re not creatures made to wait, but i’ll be patient for you, darling.

when we were magic, once, they called us witches. it was back when mystical pools swapped bodies and souls, and stars detached themselves from the satin of the cosmos to visit their favourite mortals. too often they left disappointed, white shifts and halos losing some of their gleam. the stars loved the witches, but the witches worshipped the stars. they named their children Sirius or Orion, and swaddled their babes in cloth drawn from still moonlit lakes. the stars gave thanks with gifts of glittering eyes or nimble fingers, things that became of witches.

    those they called witches were resplendent – you could tell by the fall of their locks that they were blessed. most stars were selective by who they chose, but Delphinius was flighty and impulsive. he stole away beautiful women and men for his starlit debauchery, then left the former's bellies swelling with an unborn witch-child. his blessings were frivolous, he handed them out like treats from a master to an obedient mutt. my mother was one of his bitches, scorned, spiteful and tarnished. i grew up swallowing fire and blinking back tears made of tar. she gave me hot coals to chew on and alcohol to wipe black stains off my cheeks. my mother was not a witch. she never swaddled me in moonwater cloth or prayed for my gifts or blessings. all she could taste was her burned tongue; all she could feel was her ravished womb; all she was left with was her shame, her mangled body, and a bastard daughter – a constant reminder of what she'd lost and what she'd become. when i was young and unsatisfied, i hated her for it. i don't know if i hate her anymore. there's no point getting too lost in the past to the point where you can't find your way back to the present. and you know what they say about the present. it's a gift.

    some things never change, when we were witches, you had wanted a cottage like your mother's – smelling of spices and feelings of love and home. she was a lovely woman, a different kind of lovely to you but lovely nonetheless. casks of wine and barrels of hot chocolate filled her pantry next to loaves of bread leavened on her kitchen table. her patchwork apron was like the tapestry of life – so full of patterns and colours that danced across its seams. the way she swept me into a hearty embrace the first time i met her, your effervescent grin serenading by the sidelines, continued long after you moved out of her home. i always admired her, with her strength and forward kindness, she taught me how a witch should be, though i was ever learning til the day i saw my last dusk.

    you dressed like sunrise – i once confused it for sunset, but you said no. you gave people new beginnings, not endings. i always adored your gowns and cloaks in silk and gauze and lace, floating sleeves and trains rippling behind your dainty steps. shades of pinks, yellows, reds – if only by mortal hands the craftsmanship would have rivalled Titania. but more often than not, she saw not to intervene. she kept to her realm and we kept to ours. a woman of contrasts, that faerie, cold as ice and harsh as a desert wind, yet her cloying perfume promised unnatural beauty and infatuation. i nearly went with her the first time. you made me potions after that. but both of us were smart enough not to eat the sugared tarts she brought to tea.

    you tucked your slight bough of honeycrisp behind your ear when you weren't using it. it winded itself in spiral strands, but the way the stray leaves rested in your gentle curls made me want to hold you close and breathe in your sweetness and comfort. even when you were away, the scent of the honeycrisp bough lingered. you were distraught when the orchard near our cottage burned down. i felt guilty that despite my efforts to save the grove, the taste of woodsmoke on my tongue was alluring – a lost promise of a place i’d never return to.

    i never missed it. no, i never wished to walk those halls again. but i’d think of it sometimes, late at night. you’d be fast asleep in my arms, keeping me grounded. you were the compass pointing me towards home, a beacon in my stormy seas.

    while you wore the sunrise, i wore the night. i did all the things i learned witches did; i washed my bare feet in morning dew; prayed to the stars and their sisters; sewed myself a dress from blessed moonwater cloth – i asked divine permission before daring to imitate their brilliance. i think part of the reason they granted it was because you were praying for me.

    you were a favourite child of Sun, the nearest star who blessed all those who beheld her, whether they worshipped her or not. earth sprang to life from her nurturing touch, and you cared for her creations better than any other witch your age. it took me a long time to find my calling – i knew not what my means of magic was, nor by which means to channel its power. i had gained a familiar by this point, a silky black cat who i named Juno and loved fiercely. she calmed some degree of my eagerness to discover my powers, while you encouraged such personal interrogation. you could have a crystal or an orb or something else, you’d say, but i'd insisted on a wand like yours. i wanted to be as good a witch as you, seeing the gratitude you received from the village folk made my heart melt with love for what you did, the healing you provided people. i knew deep within myself that i was not a healer, but i kept searching, travelling as far as a week’s ride from home for an ancient tome or spell or ritual that might reveal some meagre hint of my inheritance. but i'd always return to you. how could i not? you were my morning star, the one i could always return to.

    the evening chill did not bother me as it did you, my bare shoulders did not feel the cold as i'd lived without warmth for so long. my cold hands in yours made you shiver, but your laughter at such a sensation, so strange it was to you that my skin was cold to the touch when a blazing hearth dwelled beneath your own palms. i'd kissed you then, and you murmured into my lips that my mouth was as warm as the spark Prometheus stole, that i melted you with Venus’ embrace. you ran your fingers through my hair and i was lost.

    i always awoke later than you. i could not help it, for as the scorpion must sting, i must wander through the night – it was my nature. but finding my way back to our bed before the morning arrived, Dawn lighting the east with rosy fingers, i always revelled in the feeling of your impossibility beside me – how could one be so strong yet so soft? i never needed to know the answer, for i'd known my demeanour was akin to iron before you reduced me to a puddle of molten particles, all focused on you.

i lay asleep on the bus today, dreaming of an island where women chose to love women and the distant crashing waves nearly drowned out the sound of your voice, a maiden practicing her lyre on the adjacent wall. we were eternal, darling, never fading. i hope you know that. we’ve spoken late into the night, they felt like whispers over the ocean, under greek marble, lost in a sunflower field, morning kisses grazing sleepy eyelids under the rising italian sun. i buy a bouquet of roses and fling them into the ocean, hoping they’ll find their way to you.

dearest,

    it's been the longest time, and yet, we still have the rest of our lives left. it seems unthinkable that we have so much time to be together, that our stars didn't just collide by accident and continue on their fated path across the cosmos. you loved me before i loved you (well, i suppose i loved you in the first message i sent, but that was a very different type of love.) and looking back, i was a fool to have not seen it sooner. i didn't want to hope that someone as lovely as you could possibly find something worth living in me; i'd never experienced heartbreak and i hadn't planned on pinning such negative emotions to your sunflower smile. "but she had eyes, and she chose me," says the tragic hero. "one that loved not wisely, but too well." and such wisdom has long left me in lieu of utter adoration.

we've spoken late into the night; they felt like whispers over the ocean, under greek marble, lost in a sunflower field, morning kisses grazing sleepy eyelids under the rising italian sun.

    shakespeare must have loved too, for in his words i find truths about love that i am ineloquent to express. the noble boy stands in the bounteous orchard of his adversaries, but gazes upon the greatest beauty and cannot but whisper in wonder at she who makes his heart beat so. "but, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? it is the east, and juliet is the sun." in my all my fantasies, i can see us taking centre stage in such romantic tragedies, yet i do not wish for such an end. for me to proclaim my love in the finest doublet as you reach from the balcony so that your fingers might brush mine; your hair is a halo and the sunshine illuminates you; you are blinding and i would rather go blind than look away. such a dream will stay in dreams, but when i see your face, it is close to coming true.

when the gods built us, darling, they were aching for a love story. 

i don't know how long ago they pulled our souls from the night sky, where they had been fixed, stationary, shining like distant planets, waiting for an eclipse. for all i know, it was at the formation of the earth. for all i know, it was yesterday. 

    i know you loved the works of sappho much more than the cruel bard - no woman would mutilate another lady in the ways how lavinia suffered. sappho is much softer, gentler, and i hear her in the gentle plucking of a lyre and the sound of the tide coming in on the island of lesbos. you made this music for me, and i listen to it more than you know. when i hear the lyre singing, i can pretend that you are with me.

love from miles away,

- a