Though I falter at your touch, I nonetheless remember:
What is brightness without the shadow that follows it,
forlorn and shaking
frostbite nipping at its limbs?
Opposites attract,
yet no one speaks of two shadows
wrapped around one another.
No one speaks of two burning candles,
crumbling towards one another—
burning so bright they scorch the sun.
What can be said of two crows
hidden amongst rays of the morning sun,
wishing away the daylight for a few moments more?
Is language adequate to describe the cautious scales of Keres,
balanced and merging,
tipped by the slightest touch?
Birds of a feather,
covenants forged by blood
and midnight confession,
as moonlight illuminates painful words—
incomprehensible to any other creature,
any other shadow,
any other crow—
Threads of fate entangled:
candles burning each other out
until nothing remains,
yet clinging onto an impossible warmth—
The burning, aching warmth—
of sharing a womb
with one who cannot share a fate.
This company was promised
by the mirror-image gods,
Apollo and Artemis.
The sun and the moon revel in each other’s light
as night fades into day—
only for a fleeting moment do they meet.