Pied Piper
Follow my voice.
The Pied Piper whispers with my tongue, his breath on mine between the dryly dulcet syllables. They coat my mouth with fervent, bittersweet lust, twine my consonants into urgency.
I swallow.
Follow my footsteps.
His legs, of course, are mine, and we are only walking on hollowed bones, wooden bones, a skeleton into which he has breathed his memories and from which he has scoured all marrow. The essence of his memories is shadow.
I have become his skeletal intangibility.
Follow the dream.
My dream has, of course, been replaced by his.
Of course.
In it his tongue being pressed into parchment, his eyes turned to papyrus, and the quick, quiet brushstrokes of calligraphy mute his voice—
—his voice—
Follow my blindness.
His blindness comes from lies, with which we create our truth. Saffron-textured falsehoods crowd into my mind, choking on the thought of the sincerity that they create.
My lips curve into his smile.
Follow—
Our voice quivers, breaking into avaricious finality.
Silence.
On hollow bones, I follow.