On nights my soul is ablaze, I whistle a tune for Charon and his Ferry. Strange we are on speaking terms, but we have met once before. This ride is not for the Underworld; he says I no longer belong there. I would be inclined to believe him if I did not still feel so hollow. Charon guides me into his carved-out oak vessel while Moonlight Sonata plays my head; we sail through his mother's womb. His boat reminds me of the foundation of a banana split.
We never need to speak; the company of another for a little while is more than enough. I always want to reach out and taste the stars, wondering if they would feel like pop rocks on my tongue. I do not dare touch them, for such beauty should remain undisturbed. Charon is less awe-inspired, as he was born of the night and will one day return to it.
For now, we glide through the silky umbra to a place that was once a planet. I crave ice to quench the inferno in my mind. We touch down on Pluto, which Charon calls Hades. Now it is time to play. He and I dance through the crimson snow, soothed by the chill on my skin. Even in the absence of sound, there is music between us.
This waltz at the top of an ice cream cone-shaped valley is not one of romance, only of fellowship in loneliness, for we have both witnessed the bounds of devotement and no longer wish to be a part of it. Charon only wishes to hold and be held; I am more than happy to indulge.
Through the glacier mountains and snakeskin ridges, we leave our troubles behind. Here, there is no death, no hurt, nothing anchoring our souls to pain; our ultimate ecstasy, feeling like oblivion among stars that will never be our home.
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