The Temple of Loneliness

Everyday I annoint myself with oil, smelling of myhrr and cinnamon. On Thursdays, they let us mix in jasmine and a little bit of honey. Fridays are consecrated to rose water. Every night, I wait for you not to come. I relish the taste of your non-presence on my tongue. I feel the white silk sheets flow between my legs, allow them to caress my breasts and thighs. I wait for your silence and imagine you climbing a window whose trellis is crowned by a green plant that is not quite beautiful. In your left hand, you clutch a bunch of oranges. You right hand grips the trellis like the hair of a lover. She is sitting on her bed, her blonde hair falling onto the white sheets. She laughs, balancing a guitar on her lap. The dark brown walls frame her body. They tell me that soon I might be promoted - they might make me a preistess, even. They might dip my body in vinegar, murmuring words in a language I do not understand, daring me to hug them. You must not touch them, must not inhale the lavender scent of their bodies, must not encounter their water-textured skin. It is rumored that their lips taste like cherries. When I am a priestess, I want my tongue to taste like strawberries. Then I will lie at night, on a bigger bed, soaked in the blood of flowers, fading like a soundwave into your thundering Silence.