Purple Soup

You watched me and smiled. You told me I had such beautiful things inside of me. 
My fingers slithered listlessly over the piano keys and back again, moved by invisible forces. 
You called them doodles. They felt like they belonged to someone else. 


You said you loved me. Intensely. 


And you followed me to the end of a narrow, twisting path into an enchanted womb of perpetual twilight. Stars blinked through the layered purple haze, the air was warm and heavy. 
Moonflowers bloomed from the mud on the banks of murky water, where luminescent creatures floated weightlessly, whispering promises of drowning in inconceivable depths. 


Beautiful things are dark. They are cumbersome. They are always starving and always aching and always leaning.


You left me alone in that thick, purple place, that world that no one can find unless they already know where it is. 


I believe you will wander back here. 
You will get tired of the world above ground. The memory of that place will come back to you in pieces, making you drunk and nauseated with sheer wanting. 
Wanting for the weight that you don't wholly understand. Wanting to disintegrate into eternal soup.
Wanting for me.