Just before our love got lost you said
I am "as constant as a northern star"
And I said "Constantly in the darkness
Where's that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar"

He was like cinnamon. When she thinks of him, she thinks of yellow flowers and purple berries, of leathery leaves and spicy heat. The warm, cozy scent that nourished her soul, raising vibrations and stoking the flames of fire elemental deep within. If she was the rain, he was the sunbeams on her face. Polar opposites that faced the other with constant, unconditional strength. Like the way a thunderstorm unleashes itself across an expanse of land, steady and unrelenting, and the ground beneath that opens itself up to embrace each and every drop. When she thinks of him, she thinks of hot California summers and earthy sandcastles, sturdy and so delicate. She remembers never wanting to be without him.

She was never sure where it ended, where things got mixed up along the way. Like the hint of cinnamon aroma that lingers on her besom, he faded away so slowly that she didn’t notice until it was too late. When she thinks of him, she thinks of walking away. When she thinks of him, she thinks of reckless decisions. She thinks of 3am treks in the rain to leave a situation she was fed up with. Of feeling worn down, and wanting nothing but escape.

Even cinnamon could be too cloying sometimes.

….

Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I'm frightened by the devil
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid

She was like lavender. When she thinks of her, she thinks of cleansing, of soapy bathwater and bars of Castile. Of soft purple flowers, of white and blue, of sprigs that waft in the wind with an intoxicating aroma. She thinks of potent protection, never feeling haunted by the evil eye when she was with her. She felt empowered. She knew who she was when she was with her. Like the way water always finds its level. She could always return to center when she was with her. When she thinks of her, she thinks of paint splattered clothes, of all the colors of the rainbow, dried splotches on palettes and fingers. She thinks of sprinkling lavender buds on top of her weed before rolling the joint, of glitter spills and pizza with ranch dressing. She was bold, tenacious, fearless. She was a better person with her.

It was never meant to be. She would pass in a car accident two years into their relationship. When she thinks of her, she thinks of her ghostly spirit, a ball of energy that follows her wherever she goes.

Sometimes, life has other plans.

….

I remember that time you told me you said
"Love is touching souls"
Surely you touched mine
'Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time

He was like honeysuckle. Sweet like a midsummer night’s dream. Shakespeare had worded it so perfectly: Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms… So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle gently entwist. He was steadfast. She never doubted him. When she thinks of him, she thinks of wild vines, of soft white flowers tinted purple. Fragrant, tubular yellow flowers tinged orange or pink at the tips. Like the colors of his aura, a majestic ombré. When she thinks of him, she thinks of flowers steeped in wine, of jars of honey and clear skies. Of wreaths on her door and feeling like a lightning rod for psychic energy whenever she was with him. He seemed to make it easier for her to feel what was going on around them. The emotions of others.

When she thinks of him, she thinks of fidelity. She thinks of years of always knowing where she would lay her head at night, and with whom. She thinks of the sort of desire that could warm an Arctic night. Lucky clovers and generous helpings, and the sort of feeling you get after eating a big meal. But there was such thing as too much of a good thing. Too much sweetener, and it makes you sick. It was like this with them. When they parted ways, it was on the heels of an intense seven days in the Caribbean for a friend’s wedding. The showmanship and social demands had weighed heavily on them, and they’d fought nonstop. All at once, it seemed as if nothing was right. When she thinks of him, she thinks of dead flowers. Something once beautiful, now withered.

Leaving was mutual. It was the one-sided reminiscing that was the hard part.

….

I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
"Go to him, stay with him if you can
But be prepared to bleed"

She was like the root of Solomon’s Seal. Lovely, wise and exotic. When she thinks of her, she thinks of tubular, pale yellow flowers, of berries that look like hard black peas. Innocuous but devious, disguising the poison within. She was a candy-coated mirage, carefully crafted to lure her in and inflame her greatest desires. A siren call placed so effortlessly, in forever view. But then she thinks of her and she thinks of healing, of rushing river streams and the sacred promise of mother earth. Of the divine energy exchanged between them. They came from such different worlds, from such different morals, but there was something beautiful that she could see within her. She never really knew what it was with her and attracting her opposites, but this much was true: there was an energy they shared that she often found hard to ignore.

And she knew it. She used that knowledge, flaunted it in full view. It amused her. It could never go beyond the carnal, because she knew that she could never trust herself with her. It would be too simple to slide out of the light and into darkness, to get caught in the sort of black magick her parents warned her about. And she already took too many risks to begin with.

But just because she knew this, didn’t mean anything changed. And while she made it clear to her that there were other opportunities in her sights, she remained in her peripheral, taunting her. Even more so after she started withholding sex. It was a game to her, their dialogue.

Somehow, she was certain that it would always be that way.

….

Oh but you are in my blood
You're my holy wine
You're so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh, I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
I would still be on my feet

Cinnamon, lavender and honeysuckle for balance. The flowers of Solomon to guide her. Rosehips for luck. Yarrow for searching. Clouds of rosemary smoke to appeal to the sacred Aphrodite. She who loved so fiercely also understood the nuances of what was at stake. What she really needed, and what might that need come to mean.

She raised a silver chalice to the moon, filled to the brim with wine, and lifted it in drunken, sarcastic reverence. She then took a sip, and drained the whole glass in one go. When her faculties recovered from the sharp aftertaste, she belched loudly and returned her focus to the mortar and pestle in her grasp.

Apple blossoms for something so lovely in its simplicity, she found herself complacent. She wanted complacency, she wanted to feel so satisfied that she didn’t want to leave the house. She didn’t need the distractions of the world; she had seen more than enough. Anise for lust, the kind of earth-shattering lust that left a girl ravenous, the kind of chemical attraction that made her more than happy to be complacent. Basil for steadiness. No, for knowing. Being able to sense that magnetism before it passed her by.

Hyacinth for love. A spiritually pure love, and being able to allow herself to be vulnerable to that. To speak her truth when it became necessary. To humbly be able to admit what she had done when the time was right, because no love could truly be real unless she was honest.

She paused, snorting with amusement, abandoning her mortar and pestle to reach for the joint still burning in her ashtray. She took a long drag off the end, inhaling deeply and holding her breath for a beat before releasing it, exhaling clouds of marijuana smoke that drifted over the statuary on her altar, high into the air. Who was she kidding? She might as well have been asking for a lasso around the goddamn moon. A mail order soulmate courtesy of the cosmos. If this was really what she was doing, she thought, she might as well ask for specifics. The unattainable qualities, the sort of stuff one might say they found attractive in a person, but never really expected to get. Like eyes that reminded her of the ocean, and the sort of swagger that was too much trouble for her own good. This was never going to work, anyway.

A loud noise suddenly answered her, the clatter of a large abalone shell inexplicably toppling over, up and over the edge of a shelf and into her lap. She stared blankly at it for a long minute before setting her joint back in the ashtray and picking up the shell. She held it up, shaking it at some unseen force in the ceiling. The ghosts which occupied this space. “This is not a hotel!” She yelled. “If I need a goddamn concierge, I’ll let you know, okay?” Silence. “You motherfuckers are all getting banished next, I tell you what…”

Where was she? Jasmine flowers, sensual and intoxicating, in reverence to the lunar mysteries. Their sweet scent filled her nose as she combined them with the other herbs, pouring crushed petals and sprigs and blossoms into the hollow of the abalone shell. She then set the shell on the edge of an open windowsill, coming to rest on her heels and taking another drag off her joint. With her next exhale, she watched as the dried flowers within the shell began to rise, up into her smoky cloud. They danced in the air, swirling around each other as if gently on the breeze, until she was holding her breath and they were still dancing.

She could taste the red wine still on her lips as she watched the herbs, studying the way they hovered above the shell, as if waiting for a command. Wafting like interstellar dust.

And for a moment, she felt stone cold sober.

She could feel an energy rising, deep in her core. She could feel it in her fingertips, in the sound of the trees outside beginning to blow around in the wind. It was almost enough to get her to second-guess herself, to force her to pause and consider what she was really doing. What universal fate she might be screwing with. Almost. Even in her drunken daze, she understood the law of three. Whatever you do, be it for good or for harm, shall come back to you threefold. It was just hard to imagine that there would be repercussions to something like this. This seemed such an innocent request from where she sat, pure and good-intentioned. “What ye send out, comes back to thee,” she muttered under her breath, lifting her fingertips to her lips. She pressed a kiss against them, and blew it in the direction of her little interstellar cloud, the gentle puff of air sending bits of dried flowers and herbs swirling out the window into the night. She watched as every last bit floated away on a gust of wind, away with purpose, until the herbs had disappeared from sight.

She didn’t notice until later the blood that had congealed around her nostrils in the process.

But she would just chalk that up to one too many glances into her own future, little ‘week at a glance’ readings that often informed her day to day decisions. Not the drunken choices she had made after an entire bottle of red wine, a veil of cannabis, and a night of self-deprecating reminiscing.

To do otherwise, she thought, was preposterous. Spirit didn’t just hand you what you wanted on a silver platter. The gods and goddesses weren’t just there to cater to her whims. That wasn’t white magick. That wasn’t the greater good. And as far as she knew, Spirit knew that such a thing was not in her wheelhouse. It seemed to go without saying that she felt as if they would laugh off the energy she had sent out, and on would go another day. Any other outcome would feel like some sort of sick cosmic joke.

Then again, a lot of things in her life felt like that.

- end -