I did, didn’t I? I forgot until just now, until reading about Persephone and the pomegranate, but I gave you the pomegranate juice. Standing there in that room, sea salty, feet on the piles of clothes that wrapped up your body when I couldn’t. Seagulls swooped and cackled outside of the window. You slept. You slept with the urgency of youth that demanded it from you. I slept less. I slept just enough so I could wake rested and look at you, sleeping, for hours, and I loved you then with a silent instinct. When I could look no more, I slipped from your bed and dressed quickly and haphazardly; I stole your keys from on the bedside table and went down the three flights of stairs that led to the outside world. I let myself out of the front door, took a left up the hill, then a right to the corner shop. The wind was behind me, urging me on.
I loaded up my Sunday morning shopping basket with the tell-tale signs of good sex on the Saturday night. There was milk, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, a Sunday newspaper, crusty white bread, real butter and fresh fruit juice; pomegranate juice. I knew the spell I wanted to cast, the spell that you would return to me or me to you, forever. I checked my watch, a little after 12pm, so I added a bottle of over-priced rosé wine which made the shopkeeper smile. As you were sleeping, I loitered outside the shop and smoked a cigarette before I walked back down the hill, facing off the wind.
It had been my friend at Christmas couple of months earlier who had alerted me to the pomegranate. She’d bought me a present of a maroon velvet top, a pair of maroon socks spangled with silver threads, and to complete the trio she’d bought me a pomegranate. Research on the internet as to what to do with the pomegranate had led me to discover the story of Persephone. I wanted to feed it to you, my lover. I knew that you would be the one to leave me and I would do anything to prolong our connection.
Now, in the land of ice and snow, I wonder. I feel you strongly, although we were never here together. My first night I dream of you; my second night I hear your voice. Tonight, whilst reading a bedtime story to myself, it talks of Persephone and the pomegranate and I suddenly remember the careless, casual spell I cast. I wish those seeds had never taken root. I thought that it would bind you to me in the love of those early, heady, passionate days; but instead I am haunted by a lost, dead love that never leaves me.
Be careful of the spells that bind.