You said to me “you are the moon of my darkness, so pale and so soft. Like white velvet. Like a snowy meadow.”
A dew-soaked morning; you brought me here. The heat shattered the brittle humidity later on. Later on, when I came back. It slid from me in waves and described a pattern on the grass. Round and round. Round and round.
But that morning.
That morning, promise breathed about us. It sparkled in the air. I remember my shirt clinging damp to the small of my back. The edges of my skirt were weighted and wet. You drew me forward. You centred me. I whirled around and around with glee.
Do you remember us laughing at the grass stains on your knee? Did they ever wash out?
“People will guess what we were doing now.” You said, but changed your trousers back at the hotel. I watched you, and wondered.
You said to me “this is the smooth pale cap” and stroked me till I moaned. You said “the fold of the gills… the stubby little stalk” I gasped.
You went down to the reception, and I remembered where I’d left my scarf: I had dropped it on ground in that clearing. Or so you said. Did I remember or did you?
I gathered it up and brought it to my face. Silk slipped over fevered skin. You’d bought me this earlier, as an impulse. The diamond was planned, but were the time and place?
You said to me “this is the phallus” and guided my hand “in it’s mulching bed” and I giggled.
Do you come back now and again to search for me? I imagine that you do, and it must be in daylight, as I never see you. I yearn for daylight.
Now is only dusk and longing. Did you find the scarf, was it snagged and twisted around a stile? I watched it fly in a bitter breeze, a ragged butterfly; it flittered from my grasp.
That wind, insistent and wild, brought something here. Floating, intent, focused.
The diamond fell from my finger. My fingers fell from my hand. Long after the first spores, I can feel the filaments slipping into my pores.
Every night I dance in circles as it feeds. Round and round. Round and round. Dead matter.