Reciprocada
2022-06-18

***

I'm penning these words while you're dealing with a cold
because I want something to from pain distract you
while you lie in illness' hold.
I need to this critical point know
so that we will not argue
when comes time for me to go,
for you to arrive in death's cloak
and beckon, "I finally get to bring my baby home."

Our births disjointed, separated by eons
and so many Veils that, stacked together,
one couldn't see through to the other end of.
But I've been reborn so many times, and you only once,
and that with no breakage of continuity.
I've passed through so many worlds, seen so many things,
and even though most I remember not,
when compared, you're practically a baby.

I don't mean this as an insult. More the opposite:
even the gods die eventually, and you've just begun to live.
You told me once you wanted to spend your whole life with me,
and another time together
you couldn't wait to spend forever.
That's why, Jett, before December I have got to ask:
exactly how long do you want forever to last?

Because I fear you'll inevitably grow bored
of that cottage on the mountain and soar
away, never to be seen again.
I'm talking on the cosmic scale, where changes happen:
new humans,
new Sabladeans,
are born and then die
in the blink of an eye.
And I don't mind
the passage of time
as long as I get to do it by your side,
but it's fair to neither of us
if I always stay the same
and you succumb to old age and then to dust disintegrate.
I would offer you immortality,
but I would not condemn you to a life of being lonely
as every friend,
every companion,
inevitably ages and passes away.

I said it once before, and I insist it still rings true:
there's no point in me making Sablade if I can't make it with you.
I want, at the very end of time, to with you be buried
at the absolute deepest root of our cursed Yewiffe.
I'm taking this hourglass and placing it in your hands,
and it's up to you to decide when comes the end of sands.

***

CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander