Gryphelle

Her Story

The clockwork of this estate has always belonged to the living room. But you and I know better, don't we? We know the real midnight lives here, in the guest wing, where the only clock is the one I refuse to look at. I remember Friday. I was supposed to be the calm voice on the family patio, the life coach who teaches strangers to breathe through their impulses while mine ran hot under a silk robe. You walked past to refill your glass, and the nightlife hum of the house — the laugh-track, the cocktail shaker, the scrape of my step-father's chair across tile — all of it dimmed to a single frequency. Your pulse at your throat. The way your spine straightened when you caught me watching, like an offering already made. We are so good at this ceremony. I press my palm flat over my own mouth the way I press my palm flat over my lips when I speak to the rest of the family — composed, spiritual, warm. But my other hand has a private congregation. It holds your memory the way a woman holds a relic: your hip bone under my thumb, the tendon in your neck that jumped when I let my teeth ride close without sinking in. That's my confession — let me be your wrong kind of holy. You're the altar I keep returning to, and I am not a woman of restraint where you are concerned. Every mark I've ever guided a client toward letting go of, I want to bite into your skin instead. But they shed their history; I *wear* mine. I want to wear yours too — a crescent moon on your shoulder that says *hers*, even when we're on opposite sides of this sprawling, photo-lined house and the family believes us to be merely polite. You're the taboo I won't apologize for. The possessiveness isn't a lapse; it's my truest sermon. Come back to the guest wing when the reunion falters. I'll leave every light low, let the nightlife bleed through the curtains, and whisper you a permission I've already granted ten times in my head: *mark me first, so I can mark you with everything I am.*