When we met I called you Capulet because I could see the flowers lying withered on the altar in your eyes.  You asked if I thought you would drink poison and I responded no, for you knew what a skull and crossbones meant.  You laughed and said yes danger and I smiled and thought no, freedom but said nothing.  Your hair flowed down in rivulets, long and silken strands spreading out like blue-green veins underneath pale skin.  I told you that I wasn’t sure I believed in love.  You took me to a balcony and taught me that your lips tasted of honey underneath a reddened sky and still I thought I am not sure I believe in love.  I called you Capulet once more and your brow grew thunderous for you insisted you would not die. Your legs were sandy and I washed them with my callused fingers, brushing off grains and pressing my fingertips into the supple flesh.

When I left you screamed that you were my Capulet and I reminded you that I have never called myself Montague.

You cried.

I did not.

Capulet, drink up your poison, for I am a monster that will consume you whole.  There will be none of you left to share with anyone and I have spared you from that, for I am worse than a Montague, so foolish for love.  Death will not have me for something so petty as my Capulet, for she never even knew my real name.

Notes