Relic

I remember the way you lifted
the glinting, silver pendant
like a trapdoor - surprised
to find a mark the metal
had carved into my skin;
one red notch - you,
your shadowy stamp.

Before I came here,
I removed the necklace;
placed it, tenderly, with kisses,
inside a box within a box.
Stored it away as if it were
the holiest of relics -
a monk doting on the bones
of a saint's little finger.

But now, in another world,
a rash has spread just below
the hollow of my neck -
as if the skin itself is remembering,
calling out in protest.
Or it could be that I'm pawing
at this sacred place in my sleep.

Amidst the flare, a trio
of blotches are easily visible;
one, two, three...
You, and your two mad needles?

Yet... there is hope.
Somewhere in the dark,
my necklace gives a flash,
a flicker of silver light;
Mercury brings messages
of a shift, a transition.

And you, Shadow?
Plucked from my heels,
you are now flesh and bone -
have gone to sit in a pub
or a coffee shop, somewhere
in the future. Alone,
but watching for me.
Here's hoping I don't keep
you waiting too long.