three pronged path:
there is a diversion in night lode. a three pronged dissection of reality, now half remembered in jaundiced noon.
the identity of this witchcraftian girl-teen, with a red, blurred out devil mask on her t-shirt, is not specified; but standing close to her in the flesh caused a tightening of the lungs, a slowing of the blood in thickened veins. with right palm spread open, illuminated, like the corona of a moon, the magus taps her chest thrice, and tells her, with struggling breath, to ’think. of. the. sun.’
there are canopies and umbrella like shelters, pale greying walls, an air of after-rain, like an afterimage of damp existence, an upstairs and a downstairs, perhaps a chalet, and a celebration with little or no human noises. there is a table where the fortune tellers must sit. three of them, taking turns to read the fates of strangers. but there is only one cartomancer, one who must attend to two histories at once. on one hand, inside the hall, a dejected woman, who had married the wrong man. outside, at a wooden table, a meek woman, who had just arrived, scared and alone. torn between the two, which one should be attended to first?
there’s an overweight man, stair climbing but never sweating, like a fluid-less animal. on one of the levels, by the white doorway, there are three women. the one with the short grey hair, becomes erotically drawn to the man. he wears a tight, light blue thong and nothing else, mounds of fats spilling out over his feminine shaped groin. the stretch marks on the side of his belly is a horned face. sexual anxiety mounts. she had been stalking his aura, his social media, she is declaring her romantic interest, but he averts her advances. he leans against the door frame, hand on waist, painfully aware of his skimpiness.
She was my eternal she. she doesn’t seem eternal anymore. her miscarriage is no longer a charged memory. the brutal break up with her decade long lover isn’t relieving anymore. she got married to another man on a magical day meant for me. i should show her, her fate, but I feel nothing.
the sun is a lifelong thing inside me. the nights are no longer weary and worn out with questions. the answer is a lifelong thing inside me. i have swallowed the sun whole. i do not know if my palm on her heart has done anything worthwhile. I have pulled myself away from a destiny as corpse. i might never see her again.
this grey haired woman does not belong in my bed. no one belongs to my bed except me, except the multitude of my bodies and desires. i sweat and cum alone. like an animal full of listless fluid.