Upon The Shores Of Lethe, Beneath A Scarlet Sun

One by one, each star dimmed and flickered and, finally, went out, leaving me in darkness.

I closed my eyes and slept. For longer than I had in weeks, months, I slept, occasionally opening my eyes to find light beginning to pull back the curtains to caress the bare shoulder of the woman I didn't dare to touch.

The storm subsided. New stars lit the night. New constellations to learn, new paths to find. I gave over to loss what belongs to loss and let those dimming stars extinguish themselves to light other skies. My Pleiads departed one by one.

Bit by bit, the darkness retreated like the tide after a storm. When I opened my eyes, she was still there: I had washed up on her shore again, Lethean water still sweet on my lips, forgetfulness starting to mend what time could not.

I watched as she slept on the gray flannel sheets in the cedar dawn.

(I, your troubled writer. You, my dark muse.)

Words began to ache against my lips and I could not bear to give them voice, to break the perfumed silence as she slept.

I wandered into the cold October morning, streets bedecked in gold as the leaves surrendered to fall. The sun was scarlet, shrouded in silver, and I walked along the banks of a newly-found river, disappearing into a dream undimmed.