There was a red beetle in the bathtub. It looked like a little drop of blood, making its ascent upward—defying gravitational laws—and I can’t remember when I pricked my finger on a thorn touching a thing of such beauty before. The tear-drop of crimson looked tidy and neat against the porcelain and I stood there transfixed and vibrating in metaphors. After all, it was just a red beetle crawling up the gentle curve of the bathtub and alls I kept imagining was a drop of my blood, drawn from the finger of my curiosity at exploring you like a bramble of blackberries—of course, like all things about you, the blood would flow against the common.
It’s the third red item I’d noticed in three days. The first was a beer cap without any writing on it. The waiter seemed out of practice at opening the bottle, like he was just figuring out how to use a churchkey, and when the cap fell on the table he left it there in the wake of his clumsy pours. When you stepped away to use the restroom I inspected the cap and it smiled at me, the indentation curved upward at the corners in a friendly crescent shape, and I pocketed the happy little thing. I can be oddly sentimental.
The third red came upon me in a soft wake or morning light, in the form of a pomegranate. The sun spilled upon it and it seemed to glow upon the branch and my mind fell to Persephone sucking the seeds of that fruit in the underworld and the three months of winter that followed suit each year thereafter. I keep thinking of the perpetual winter of my youth, sucking the wrong fruits dry—where were those other nine months my whole life?
I keep finding beauty in the mundane these days. The other day I noted the moon looking down on me as I strolled home with the evening air pulsating around me in cool waves. It had taken on a peachy hue and I swear it was blushing, or maybe I was blushing, thinking about you—and in a self-centered projection I had imposed my foolish feels on the moon. I wondered about the dark side of it, the duality of it’s nature, just as I wondered at the duality of my own, and I couldn’t help but think that while I know you exist in the world my mind will not traverse those shadowed craters as readily as it had before; funny that I felt I was seeing the light side of the moon for the first time, despite knowing what my eyes had been seeing my whole life.
I feel a bit like Argus, my epithet to see all and not really see. In the wakefulness of a morning spent in your arms, I feel my myopia focusing.
*Painting: “Argus” by Salvador Dali