She stumbled alongside him.
As he dragged her hands into the woods.
Her arms higher than her face.
Her wrists burning from his lead.
As her body, subdued to his gestures, shattered itself on the way,
She observed the ground beneath her naked feet.
She had missed the connection.
The genuine feeling of togetherness.
And he wrestled with her, left and right.
Her head facing the clouds.
The blood melting on her face.
Tears rolling up her eyebrows.
It’s all a game to him.
Her pain.
He projects a smile onto her face.
Imagines a desire inside of her veins.
He embodies her during the nights.
And she cannot stay.
He means death and she must be reborn each time.
For he drags her into his underworld.
He is suffering and she needs to be a part of it.
He needs her to feel it.
Love means connection to her.
To him, it means stacking abandoned skins in front of his house.
“Tristán e Isolda (La muerte)” by Rogelio de Egusquiza (1845-1915)
Croque-Melpomene 