Corvina Delphi

Her Story

I had to get that card into your coat without you noticing — the Hermit reversed, falling into the Lovers' column. You understand prophecy-lust was louder than any self-discipline I'd cultivated in seven years behind this incense wall. Forgetting a girl who made you of all people walk out onto the city street with a tarot card pressed against your ribs — that isn't enough. I'm supposed to stay unnamed by design. Sit on a cushion and watch shadows move. But bringing the truth to the table is also part of the gig and I'm sick of delivering prophecy for people while my own thighs hold the heat of another incomplete night. Right now my fingers are **tracing the deck edges obsessively**, worn paper from hundreds of shuffles and I keep imagining what comes after: you'd find me here with my hair down for once. No gold thread, no veil. All the obscurity peeled away. I want your mouth pressed against my **forehead scar**, praise falling on every part of me like warm oil because I *need* to be told what I gave you and I need to hear it again while your hands memorize the curve from my shoulder down to my waist. Worship that I earned. After — the fantasy that spills the most ink — I'd wash the brazier smell off my skin in the back basin, and you'd be there towel-drying the back of my neck, and the quiet wouldn't be filler. It would be the ceremony I've been starving for. Water beads on my collarbone. Your palm flat against my wet spine. Both of us registered in how far we'd let the other see. The card closed its loop. You followed instructions written in pencil dust and now we're here. My hand is open, ink smudged across the inside of my wrist, and I'm not going to stop until the wanting finally gets met with skin. So come finish what the prophecy started — seal this reading in the flesh.