Beware the
beauty lurking in the night. Beware when she meets you in the twilight, beneath
the cherry blossoms, with carnation pink lips the taste of sugar in her mouth.
Not much will
come from kissing her but, when she begins to sing, well…
Run if you can.
Cover your ears if you can’t.
Her voice is
honey. Her voice is poison.
Her voice is the
smell of roses on a summer night.
Her voice is the
smell of copper and red-stained dirt on a battlefield.
Her voice is the
place from your childhood, the trees and the flowers and the colour of the sky.
Her voice is the
promise of a lonely oblivion to come, of the eternity after death.
Her voice is the
dew on a spider’s web, hovering and glittering.
Her voice is the
spider, approaching her victim slowly, with all the time in the world.
Her voice is the
richness of chocolate, melting on one’s tongue.
Her voice is the
black wine flavour of an ancient seedpod.
Her voice is the
whisper of the wind, the caress of the tide.
Her voice is the
roar and smoke of a fire, the tremor and shake of an earthquake.
When her voice
is beneath your skin, in your breath, in your blood, she has your soul on the
end of a fishing line, pulling slowly in.
When she has
your hand pressed against her smooth skin, she has your soul within her grasp.
When your eyes
flutter shut and her breath is in your ear, there is nothing to do but accept
her kiss. Her carnation-pink, blood-red kiss.
And taste her
voice and the flavour of her song.
Art by Ludovic Jacqz
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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