I came from the sand.
I climbed out, faithless, to find you.
I covered my hungry hands with your smile,
I walked barefoot through coniferous woods,
I sweat glass and bled silver into your mouth,
and when you, the sun, the inferno that called me,
asked me why I came,
I showered sharks teeth upon you 
and returned as salt to my desert.

Josya

"Belong to" is not the same as "depend on", we once agreed, although some languages do not distinguish the two. You claimed you refused to be possessed, embracing your owner while holding my hand. "I wouldn't want her to say she loved me anyway." Sixty-three night strolls, a half-dozen bottles of gin and countless pages later, we were clearing out. She was calling you, but you'd be back, you assured me. I don't remember goodbye.

That summer, I was hiding again. I sent you one hundred hideous snakes of Medusa and you returned each one headless, covered in red marks, prodding me out from inside. Until you wrote you were staying. I knew the decision depended on her, belonged to her, and when you disappeared, you were still exclaiming that you refused to be deceived. Her words from your mouth were the last I heard of you.

Now that you are gone, what does your memory depend on?  To whom does your memory belong?