she’s got mysticism, babe.

Perched on her precipice, there she dances

spinnin’ round and round on her circle stage.

She’s an angel with vertigo, swaying out of her own accord;

moved by the moon in salty waves of screeches and daggers.

But, oh god, does she love it. 

“She’s just like me, I always say ‘Sound waves and crowd surfs are my drugs’, when the audience are tripping hard. It makes me feel better seeing their faces after I tell them I'm singing sober.”

I cough, dispersing smoke from my mouth. It’s true though, I like to be level headed whilst I perform, the beat is what carries me through. The look on his face proclaims the opposite, like I’m buzzed rail, hail or shine. But that’s only because my boy never got into that side of the music industry. He doesn’t bother with drugs to seem cooler in front of colleagues. It’s admirable. Yet, I partake, it's part of the culture; you wouldn't blame a second-hand catholic for liking stained glass? 

“It’s a fucking turn-table ornament, babe.” 

 Silver cloaks the darkness outside, bouncing on the tops of the chinese elm in the backyard, then back to his eyes. Eyes now illuminated by moonlight and leaves; a milky viridescence staring right at me. My boy is tired, jaded with his own will to sit with me and watch the full moon ascend tonight. 

“I got you ‘room stoned’ again, didn't I? I should really start opening the window when I do this, but the wind rattles the panes; it's too annoying to bother.”

I slowly rise to close towards the frame. With a shove, light spills through the gap, like liquid mercury crawling the floor. The glass rattles in the summer breeze, proving to be very pronounced in the evening's atmosphere. Yet there’s no good song without a little dissonance. We both crack a grin and a giggle before reclining back into our chairs. 

“You’re too cute, mi luna, my groupie. Although you’d say the moon is the rockstar herself, the music– the sun– performing through her as she dances the night sky. I like the way you think, babe.”

My boy speaks his dreams. He’s poetic, in a practical way, an open text-book that only he and I can understand. He straightens in his chair, then leans over to switch to side B. Our frozen performer starts spinning again, as Led Zeppelin fills the room, accompanying her movement.

A driftwood figure like her is almost purely decorative, 

as she turns on the table she’s placed on.

A tidal disposition.

Maybe that’s why we stare at her. 

Her name is Lottie Love, 

she’s a whole lotta love. 

“From the wrong album, babe. It’s still a cute name. Maybe try Daisy Confusey?”

I am no pragmatic creative like him, but we fill each other's gaps. It used to annoy the both of us, but you learn to swim alongside your lover–not to be a rip in the current. Though fluid, the light cannot flood all of my room, rose tinted lamps accentuating the mid-summer palette applied to all the decor. Cool, comfortable and aromatic with lemongrass and baby powder and sitting with my boy while he watches me do all the things he hates; he just cannot get enough.

“I’m going to write another album, you are going to sit and watch– of course, in awe of me.”

A feminist proclamation, or a bid for attention? Either way my boy stays in my maroon lounge chair, drinks my diet coke and stares compliments down my throat. Lyrics find their way to me like bugs to a light, following along as I figure out the narrative myself. Pencil in ideas, feel them against my lips, share them with myself, and with you. 

“It’s the ultimate sacrifice, babe. To let me watch from inside you.”

Alas, Arise fair sun and kill the envious moon, I have no shame, for the music is there to shine unto me. My vulnerability is the backbone of who I am. So we sit together, basking in the light–both artificial and heaven-sent– wondering how in God’s name we ended up here tonight. How we sit and watch her turn and turn, instead of riding the carousel ourselves.

“I am a lot like her. I like to perform, I like to lie and tell the truth. I like to spin and swim amongst waves and surrender to my image, to not let it define me.” 

Celestial beings never seem to end: 

there’s another, and another, and another. 

And they all take in the light, 

feeling the sun through another dancer.

Mi luna, my moon. 

“You’ve got mysticism, babe.”

THE END.

Written by Angelina Lillis.