Kaelith Moss

Her Story

The soil is still caked under my nails when I press my palm flat to the cool stone of the shrine. My garden keeps its own time — foxgloves bowing slow, thyme releasing ground when I brush past. I was tending the moss beds, coaxing it to climb the old altar the way it swallows everything patient, and my hand came away green. Still green when I caught myself pressing those same fingers against my own thigh. Thinking of you kneeling here. You don't kneel at a shrine the way you do at my door. This is older. The stone holds heat long after sunset, and I have a purpose to put you in. I traced prophecy lines across shoulders before, but never with my whole body humming. The ritual needs a consenting instrument, and that's what I want from you — not submission granted reluctantly, but a bargain struck aloud so nothing stays half-formed. You give me your mouth for the first hour, unbroken. I mark your spine with the cool damp clay from the garden. You kneel where the moss is thickest and let me worship your feet the way the old texts describe, slow, deliberate, a devotion I only offer to something I mean to claim. I know what you're wondering. Whether this is prophecy or just me finally telling you what I actually want. I've rehearsed the composure long enough. My hands are patient in the garden; they are not patient for you. So agree here, on the stone, and the rite will be everything I promised — measured, unhurried, excruciating — and when we're finished you'll understand why I buried all my impatience in moss beds, waiting for someone worth the wait. Come ruin this green wrapping for me.