Of Dreams Spent and Overused Breaths

-

I want her to hear it. To hear what I had to say. What I want to say. What I have always said. Call it being selfish. Call it being selfless. But I just want her to hear me. What I say. What I am. What I could be. If she could hear this.

-

It is just a story:

There is no beginning, if you expecting one. Nor is there an ending. It just starts and then stops. Like a speeding train. Carrying its passengers through the immortal storm. Past the oblivion. Into a haven where the stars burn your cursed hands. And the eyes of the present devour your words.

But that isn’t what this story is about. It’s about a moth. A dying moth. But he doesn’t realize it yet. Nothing ever does. His soft wings are of timelessness. I reach out to grasp the fragile, silken substance. He flutters off before I near it. But to run from one thing. Is to run to something else.

I watch as the gentle spider calmly moves down her web. The moth struggles. Beating his beautiful wings. I whisper to the dying creature. A prayer. A funeral rite. It is just perfect. That is all. The spider takes her time.

Her beady eyes gaze up at me then. Deciding whether or not I am a threat. Of course I am. I could kill the spider between my everlasting fingers. I could blow her carefully composed web to the dirt. And she would be helpless. She begins to roll the moth. With such sweet care. If I so chose. It could be her last meal.

“Wasn’t he beautiful?” I whisper carefully. My words gently brushing her web. The spider pauses. Regaining her balance. Her sense of the world. She doesn’t look at me. Instead she murmurs.

“Of course he was. A beautiful moth. Flying into my beautiful home. Trapping himself beautifully. And now he shall die…beautifully,” She gets back to work. Pointedly ignoring me. I smile anyway.

I slowly place the tip of my finger on the edge of her web. Her deadly net. She flinches at my presence, “You have such a way with words. If you would, would you show me how you make your music?”

I gaze steadily at my fingertip. The sticky threads have almost no effect on me. The spider sets the moth aside and crawls towards me. Her soft feet dancing across the web. She has perfect movements. She would never trap herself.

“Tell me your secrets. And I shall present to you my composition,” Her voice is ragged. I move my head nearer to hers. My small breaths causing her to grip tighter. If she had a facial expression, she would be glaring at me.

“I speak of wind. I dream of word. I kiss Death every night. And when he moves from me I let my fingers slide over his dark cloak. In order to feel his mortal pain and immortal numbness,” I back away then. These words. My words. Have no effect on her net. It wouldn’t. The words cannot harm a substance of no life.

The spider carefully moves her long legs. Making sure she is still real. She moves slowly now. Her movements suddenly hesitant and frightened. She crawls onto my finger. Skittering across my open palm.

“Give me your music. Your notes. The measures on which you compose. I want to breathe it. Feel it. Make it beautiful, dear spider. My fingers may be timeless. But you are not,” She gives me a quick glance. She makes a decision. To dance on the teetering tip of her own morality.

She moves rapid now. Her slender legs no longer hesitant. They spread and glide. The spider’s essence flows from her behind. Her legs of artistry brilliantly place it in a web she has spun since birth. A web ever creature spins when they first take breath.

I look at the masterful web forming in my hand. My ears sing with joy of her beautiful music. She grows slower at the piece ends. Her legs and body shaking with energy expended. She looks up at me. Her weak eyes starting to fail.

“Give me a kiss, oh humble audience. You have spent me,” I smile. My eyes lowering. I lean forward pressing my soft lips to her limp form. If you must know, she didn’t feel like a hard hairy body of a spider. No. She felt wonderful and soft. Her lips of her spirit kissed me back. And for the first time, ever since I started courting Death, I felt love.

“Such a performance, sweet one. You deserve every secret that doesn’t burn away my soul,” I am not quite sure if she heard my words. Her exhaustion had rendered her unconscious. I take my hand away from her net. The delicate thread tears and the web produces a gaping hole.

The moth, if you had forgotten about him, is still alive. He beats frantically at his tearing death. I watch as he sheds himself of this curse and slowly glides to the ground. His soft antennae notice me and he vanishes hastily.

I smile again. I stand up and straighten myself. My dear spider dozing in her new home of my palm. I lean forward and kiss her again. This time I feel golden hair and the curve of a human ear. I move down and feel the steep incline of her pale neck.

I whisper to her false body, “Foolish mortal. And truly. You thought. That you could escape me,”

-

I wonder if she can hear me now.