Pyrite

*lines in italics are from Jane Eyre

Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter?

Because I fear

For the warm skin

Between your shoulder

And collarbone,

The slick hair

That coils at the nape 

Of your neck.

I had cherished the thought of one day seeing him: now, I never should. 

He is like the scent of briar-roses–sickly-sweet in summer,

Humming through the wood with the frogs and midnight jasmine,

Burnt to memory by October. Once pooling in my pores,

Now soft as a song against my tongue.

I used to write poems, when nights were thick with thoughts of him.

I want to know him again,

But his scent is gone from my wrists.

The restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. 

And so I ran, windswept, after you

And wrote you into songs that sounded like

Jeans and lemonade, since I was bored of his agate eyes

And moonstone bones. I wanted you,

My pyrite. Did the moon hang

Like a dish of gold or butter, and call to me?
I have always wanted to scream back.