Singing

There is a myth under my bed. It simmers, burbling little noises into the night- it wants to be like Pele when it grows up, it tells me, when Im asleep and can’t answer how silly it is to want to be under that kind of pressure, only able to explode under very rare conditions every few hundreds of years.It would be better to be an apple, I tell it, half seriously- an apple gets eaten, an apple bears seeds to grow more, be something; turn into a tree, become something, I say while I’m still asleep and not really saying any of this, but it would be silly to want to be an apple too, I tell the little mythlet.
We argue in my sleep for weeks, I never see any of it but the edges trailing across the corner of my vision, a veil ghosting across the landscape of my mind, which is turning to the God of the South West Wind looking for him, looking for the answer to a question that my sister asked me before she went away, looking for a WORD for the little piece of the heart that melts when Lips comes, warm across the sill and dragging you and your myth out into the deep.
Because the word is not love.
It is not music.
And my sister asked me, and I want to know.