No one called the night you died.
I dreamt of you. You were but a shadow, yet the whisper of you gave me peace.
You called on Polymynhia. She sat in a paneled room, near the grate. She plucked at her lyre, composing, her countenance too earnest.
The fire crackled. Light spilled from a high window. Her crisp satin gown was bedecked with egg-sized rubies and sapphires.
She was so alone.
I stood behind you, so close as to be tacked to your frock coat, peering over your shoulder, the same way you used to look over mine to show me something.
Look, was all you used to say. I looked. I never knew what you wanted me to see.
Now I saw she was your muse. You were her hero, her captain.
As sure of yourself as ever, you stepped forward, bowed with heart-stirring grace. She looked up into your eyes. She rose and pulled off her veil, a happy bride shaking back her blond curls.
She was yours. You were hers. Apart, you were both incomplete.
She didn’t see me.
Closing her eyes, she stretched up on tiptoe, touched her lips to the center of your ghostly forehead.
Her kiss ignited. I felt it, too. Attached to your shadow, I was a part of you. A flare of blue-white starlight enveloped us all.
This time, I saw.
The starlight faded. The flames glowed. The sun shone.
You laughed. Polymynhia smiled.
The ruby above her heart sparkled.