They hadn't considered my ability to weave the web across the windows. I wasn't just a widow anymore, all adorned in the mourning for my past that had come so strongly when I found the nuisance of the city dissipating underneath my palms. Plated like Achilles, all guarded under Hades word, I strung underneath and around them like a knitting arachnid and a haunted memory. She was sick beside me. So sick she was with wondering that harkening to the realization that she made other people matter, by existing we made other people matter, when we kissed we made the world matter, she slept soundly as the fever's fervor pushed and pulsed with a carriage like the coming of the sun through her veins. Every night that it rained, the music blessed her skin with tears from the afterlife. I wept for her children that couldn't be mine, and I thundered through her lightning bolts like a monsoon. Together we were a storm.
We made the world matter when we darkened the skies and she never struck the same spot twice. You could hear me for miles, and you continue to judge your fate from the sound of my voice. I call to you and flock her light until the blackness of my clouds and the whiteness of her flashes become something of a postcard for the apocalypse.
Come home to me, Calypso. Come rain on my fire and put me to sleep.
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