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@JANTEMAUT. / Pursuing Mutuals.
MUSINGS ON WRATH, LAMENT, AND DEMISE.
I mould this temple out of your wishbones, your shoulder blades, and your pale wrists—anything that makes you bleed.
Scarlet and appalled. Every pilaster was made of filament as every crier was nurtured by their lament; yet, there is no line to differ, only a dagger that shatters. I am here all night long, Patroclus. I have always been too vigilant, too misconceived, too wrong. My amulets flew; my armour fell; the doomed prophecy has blown. They told me I was a god myself! But I have always been the one who apotheosizes your stiff corse! I am a mourner in the first place—it is written on the parchment of my fate: I have never been a
god. I have never been
good without you. Your gentle palms that have always kissed me promise; your collarbones where I sewn the seams of tenderness on. Once it is cold—tangled with your dust, reminded me of the tomb that my mother despises—yet I tithe to you, still. Philtatos, on this pyre, would you come over to tend these wounds together?
@PhthiaBot.
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