She had clouded curls that dipped
into the pivoting bones of
her waist and swished suggestively
when she introduced herself. She
wore white; purity, divinity, destined
for greatness, for power! She dipped
low enough for propriety, pretending
he couldn't see the bronze crests
peeking out from underneath her bodice.
Oh, she was a spunky lass, a fine example
of court vitality. She was everything
he was supposed to be looking for in an
empress, in a wife. Yet when he looked
at her, he saw fake beauty and trickster grins.
He saw vipers spitting venom at him.
She was a quiet danger.
She was not his love.
She was a reserved beauty, completely
opposite from the first. She hid behind
pillars, blended against walls, and wore
gowns that swallowed her whole. It took
him ten minutes each time to spot her
in a crowd. He was sure she was a kind
girl, a true gem for some agriculturist
in the fields, but not meant for an emperor.
She was a skittish hare.
She was not his love.
No, his love was fire in the hearth,
charred coals that warmed you
completely, not burning you, not yet.
His love was ink, blue and black
and red and green, dyed by the berries
she had tasted pouring over his
ribs, gliding over the milky surface
like varnish.
His love was golden coins because
she had learned they were the only
way to survive when she was a baby.
She was glimmering on the outside, polished
and perfect but dusty and disarrayed
inside. She was complicated layers and
misleading pathways, keeping him guessing
until the midnight sun teased him in his bed.
His love was lying in said pallet, picking
up his discarded thoughts, his fears,
ambitions, dreams and sewing them
into a quilt where they
could sleep peacefully, safely
in each other's crushing grip. He
would not lose this love, not to propriety
or rules or the law. He was Emperor,
he could do whatever he liked!
And what he liked {loved} was her.
Always her.