To Kneel at the Altar of Your Bones

She slices open a vein, and out pours star-matter. Liquid and glittering, the iridescent mess drips from her arm into my cupped palms. And, for a moment, there is only this: breathing in duet (forte, agitato), her brow a slash of determination worthy of sainthood (she’s my religion, yes), and, too, the dumbass acolyte who made a promise they’re no longer sure they can keep (me).

Quicksilver catches in the open window’s breeze, splattering over my double-breasted suit.

“Oh, for fuck’s—”

“Focus, Caro,” Lyr chides. “I haven’t wasted years of my life traveling strange strands for you to get uptight over an outfit.”

I roll my eyes—affectionate—and retort: “Your brain’s been trapped in a fungal network.”