Stars, Sunshine, And Other Things That Remind Me Of You

Webs And Worries

A shimmer in the abyss, a sparkle in the void – our galaxies had collided, every planet thus destroyed and every star thus expunged (and I think now of phosphenes and quasars, starfires and sunbursts – and how you desperately despised every one of those fantastic explosions; and how infinitely I cherished them), but this, my dear, this silent sparkle in space, is all that could be observed of our strange and spectacular disaster.

My eight hairy limbs were tingling, this beautiful butterfly was fantastically ensnared, and my wet fangs dripped with bright venom (those luminous white wings struggling in my glistening web) – we were on the divan, her and I, in sunlight and in silence, the whole of her glowing warm weight in my arms, and I was soon to devour my magnificent prey alive.
I moaned tender praise into the crown of her warm hair:
"Sylphs and seraphs in mind, you must be the most spectacular little creature I've ever known."
"Is that so?" — indeed it was, my love.
"Well then," her pink palm falling into my own, "Prove it to me."

The bulk of my crooked limbs awkwardly enfolded her, and we kissed tout de suit, and my clawed fingertips promptly sought that hidden treasure a man naturally should seek at a time as such (upon detection, she said nothing, what escaped from her was only a strange and tortured sequence of concerning reactions: convulsion, whimper, sigh) — this soft little creature writhed in my web, and never before had this humble spider beheld a pleasure so passionately expressed.

When the fervor ebbed away, and the craving had been satisfied, and all the blood had been drained from her pale little wings, we both collapsed in exhausted bliss. The moment had been glorious . . . (reader, scratch that last statement, I sense a grotesque deformity not far from here. Prepare, I say, and mark with bright-red ink my coming faux-pas).

"You can be terribly stupid sometimes, that is no secret," my lost lover whispered with a rosy smile (and I, perplexed and amused, waited in awkward silence for her to conclude that unusual adoration), "But it is on nights like this that bring to the clear surface all the floating fish of Love Lake, iridescent and hued, each pregnant with one-hundred reasons why I love you."

"Odd imagery, this," I muttered, tactlessly eviscerating the fish of her strange metaphor, and I watched the excited glow fade from her eyes, and the skin of my hand no longer sensed hers, and I fearfully foresaw the stone-silence I was about to be subjected to.

"Dear, dear, I hardly meant it, surely you must see that! I know at least now what you meant when you claimed myself occasionally stupid. Please – Please – Do not take my words so dreadfully serious – 'Twas only my foolish attempt at humor –
O please!"

Silence. The atonement of the most horrendously obsequious peasant could not mend the sorrows of an emotionally injured woman – particularly when that gory injury is inflicted by her clueless husband. This, of course, was really a very minor crease in the vast plain of marriage, but still I pondered whether this crease would suddenly open up to reveal a frightening gorge, swallowing me whole, our relationship gone and destroyed.

But perhaps I overthink. Yes, I'm very tired. The glossy pencil slipping from my aching fingers, and the weight of exhaustion crushing my limbs and pulling at my eyelids – why have I even documented this trivial tale? I cannot remember. What an absurd waste of time. Goodnight, I suppose . . .