The red lights above me are medicine.
They are small flickering vitamins that purr at my command.
I say command, but really, they’re in control.
They’re hung low, so when I flip my hair around, it gets caught .
If I swing my arms, as I tend to do sometimes, they get caught.
He hung these lights for me.
My John the Baptist.
My John the Revelator.
My John the Carpenter.
My fix-it-all man.
The one who can make the faucet stop dripping, and the one who puts my fears to rest.
The one who made this 500 square foot apartment into something magickal.
He made me a reading nook, he made himself an art studio and an office, he hung sheer curtains and these red lights I keep chiming about, right above our bed. He hung these glowing orbs above me, drowning me in their warmness.
He wants me safe.
He wants this color red to be a semi-tangible representation the love he feels and the love I feel embodied in these plastic orbs that hang like medallions, like the many versions of our hearts.
As the night grows thick, and the weekend is still three days away, we swell with love, and love one another under these lights.
Tight limbs thaw.
Headaches are plucked, and sleep finds us.
I wake up with the sound of Spring outside our window. Birds greet us and bathe in the water we leave out for them. The heat is still tolerable this time of year, and the windows can either stay open or closed. I forgot to set the coffee pot to make the coffee for us.
I emerge from the bed and from the swirl of him.
He is a staircase wrapped around me.
I slip on my “grandma slippers.”
He bought them for me at Rite-Aid on the coldest night in Los Angeles.
I sleepily put on my lavender bathrobe and clean out the filter.
Put in 8 scoops of coffee, pour in the water and press brew.
I sit and wait, happy to let him sleep in the warmth of our bed.
I look out into our mansion, our museum, our coven, our cauldron—this space that is only full of blood because WE are full of blood, and this is the time of the month, this FULL MOON, when i bleed onto my thighs, his legs, his fingers, the tub, the floor, my hands.
This is when he becomes a WOLF, and shows the world what his hands have created. This is why he is out of his skin, this is when he shows his art. That cavernous art. That art that comes when he’s tired and hungry. That art that comes when he’s drunk and feeling vulnerable. That art when he’s staring at me write, or laugh, or cry or sleep. The art when his demons can’t and won’t stop stabbing. That art that comes when I’m ready for bed and he’s ready for another drink.
So I bleed, and he bleeds, and we bleed and my wounds don’t heal, so he licks them clean, and his wounds are stitched and I pop them open, and we laugh because this is how we grow. This is how we love.
This is love.
This is fate.
This is destiny.
He’s hungry in the morning.
He makes us cinnamon toast, granola w/berries and walnuts, soy milk and more coffee.
For him, 2 eggs, salted, while I usually have just 1, heavily salted.
We laugh, and give each other words of encouragement.
I pour the last of the coffee and finish getting ready.
He wets his hair, and asks me to braid it. He likes how I tug at it to make it tight. He likes how I use the bobby-pins to secure the loose strands.
Thanks me with a tight hug and a wet kiss.
Tells me how beautiful I look with the sun hitting my face.
I see his eyes circling me, trying to take me all in at once.
I am Jupiter.
“You’ll still be writing poetry at 100 years olde, blind even, you’ll still be writing poetry.” he says.
I kiss him, and his fingers move around my soft body squeezing me in his hands.
I feel his tight muscles in my hot hands. He flexes and releases. A graceful tree.
A man with gravity from all sides.
Pulls me close.
I am putty.
I am slime in his hands.
I breathe him in.
Trying to memorize his morning scent to carry it through my workday.
“I love you.” I say.
“I love you too.” he says.
“I’ll see you tonight.” I say.
“I’ll see you soon.” he responds.
The 10 hours in-between these moments can either be filled with glorious anticipation, or treacherous suffering.
The choice is ours.
We never know what the day will bring.
All we know, all I know, is that the red lights above me are medicine…