You call me cinnamon, red apple, myrrh.
I only call you by your name.
And then you grasp tighter. You bite harder. You work faster than neurotransmitters, adrenal glands, caudate nucleus. You go deeper than all the waters in the world.
You call me sunlighter, voltage, song.
I call upon you, prefrontal cortex almighty: deliver me from chemical deception; for my veins are the pathways he travels, and my heart opens its chambers to receive him; and even though I claim to be a departure, I keep coming back as an electric negative night after night after night.
Abrupt tempo change. Hardcore drumming. Mouth feeding, drinking, spitting, touching. Full-volume assault.
Horizon cracks a scarlet stare and we in hymenean delirium, sinking a blade into time. Forever bound to this dark epoch dressed as youth, we are candles burning every grain of the past, every claim the future may have on us. Wreaths of breath around our minds, the secret fever blossoms silence on our lips. As I lie in your arms, universe becomes a pseudonym for home.
You call me love.
But love is a head-hunter – harder than catching a bird, or building a ladder to the moon.
So I only call you by your name.
And then you call me a daughter of a dog.
Basilike Pappa lives in Greece. She likes her coffee black, her walls painted green and blue, her books old or new. She despises yellow curtains and red tape. She can’t live without chocolate, flowers and her dog. Places she can be found are: kitchen, office, living room. If she’s not at home, I don’t know where she is. You can find Basilike up late with a notebook in the Silent Hour.