Left For Deadite

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We never first met.

Never, really.
Never in any formal, “Hello, my name is…” / “Nice to meet you, I’m…” sense.

The recital, that was my first sight of you.
You never saw me enter, you couldn’t have seen me sit, you didn’t see me applaud, you shouldn’t of seen me depart. Okay, maybe you saw me applaud, but there were hundreds of patrons applauding, so, it isn’t likely. You were on stage, behind that big, black Steinway. Everyone else? They sat in the dark. And, my seat was at the back of the mezzanine. Neither was I, somehow, conspicuously dressed. So, no way did you see me — me, in particular.

Only, upon my second sight of you — really, the first time we legitimately “met” — several years later? You knew me. Treated me like an old friend. While this was flattering, it made no sense. And I hadn’t the courage to ask how you knew me. Perhaps, I’d forgotten. But, no. Having reflected long and hard, it is undeniable: We never first met.

Had you seen me perform? That’s doubtful. Besides, my performances are rarely memorable — unless there’s a big, on-stage fuck up. Or, my rare memorable performances? Nine times out of ten? I’m so heavily costumed and made up, there’s no way you’d recognize me out of character. Story of my life, really.

My best role: The Headless Specter. And the name says it all.

And yet, here, you knew me. And from nowhere at all. And it confounds me to no end.

Because we skipped a step? That first formal introduction? Maybe that’s why, whatever we had, whatever we were to each other, got so screwed up. That’s why we ended up in the forest, in the dark, in the cold mud, nary a stitch of clothing on our backs, with knives at each other’s throats. For, any sort of conventionality wouldn’t fit the Thing we were to each other. Fucking, the old fashion way, never could’ve quenched the Thing-we-were-to-each-other’s thirst.

For every encounter, there’s a protocol to be followed.
(Perhaps.)
A properly executed protocol leading to a properly executed relationship.
(Perhaps.)

Unless… you — who, any day of the week, never said Hello first — planned it this way. Unless, gaining the upper hand by forever throwing the opponent off.
Is your nature.

If so, here’s one more thing for you: my respect.

Hm.
And all this while. Blindly convinced. I was the deceptive one…

Well.
Bravo, my love.

Your knife cut deep enough not to kill, but to deaden just enough, to, maintain a beat.
Nothing more.

No. Not a musician. You?
Should’ve been a surgeon.

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