long ago there lived knights

in the moors of aviemore, in the hills of belgium, in the fields of northern japan-

with armor that got used a maximum of thrice the amount of blood used to slay his enemy

before he, too, had to mend his body

as well as the stallion, flickering by the candlelight that he now tends to so dearly.

they sweep broken and chapped lips against cold bloody metal

“for pallas,” they chant,

as they drive their handsome animals into the war.

centuries later, there sits a girl-

no, a woman-

with hair helios could’ve threaded as silk and eyes that seem to burn-

atop a throne. she does not have a saddle or a horse or a foal-

but she has a crown

and the loveliest smile etched onto her visage.

this, this, this is how you let him go-

underneath lilac-colored veils and cream sheets crumpled in on themselves

you stroke his hair, a twist of caramel filaments burnt with a torch and set aside to cool-

but he refuses he refuses he refuses he refuses he refuses

to give back, because you are not a piece of his soul; he says.

whatever we are made of, he whispers, you are of ash and i of night.

if i was stronger, perhaps, i would’ve let you slumber

by the seraphs overlooking the cruel and beautiful sea

with a thousand feathers littering a thousand drops

of candle wax burning my annabel lee-

but i shall not

i shall never

let you go

and that is why i step out onto the breaking whitewater

with nothing but a ring in one hand

into the depths of what lies beneath.