Spilled Ink from the Vault

Healing has been the hallmark of our odyssey
and this last hurrah follows our patterns; it hurts
still. There is a profound sense of loss, a bereavement
as we drop out of dynamic, but even this sundering
is marked by a certain grace, consecrated by clear
communication and consent. My tears fall into your hair
as I hold you against me, a last rites of sorts. Tonight
we embody the harmony we’ve preached all along,
a balance of binaries: femininity and masculinity
(neither of them toxic), Dominance and submission,
servitude and emancipation, and we pour out libations.
Your release is satisfying and sensual, you allow me
to navigate to the zenith at which your pleasure
leads to melancholy. Mine is liquid lament,
the epitome of my vulnerability. Despite the pain,
there is a comfort and a closure. Darkness
follows your departure and I do not sleep. I am patient
with my heart, and allow her to tarry a moment in the memories.
The sorrow does indeed last the night, and if the morning
brings not joy, it does bring peace. In earlier turmoil
I feared that complete abstinence might be the only option
for my sanity, but in this quietude I can leave your towel
hanging in my bathroom until washing day, and I can inhale
the scent of you on my pillow without disintegrating,
and I discern a calm hope that mere weeks from now
I may sit beside you in a cinema, friends sharing a black comedy,
the legends of the past indistinguishable from myth, but we know
this Queen once danced in the realm of the Black Rose.