Remembering Rosemary
Written for Zara.
Horatio is made of rosemary, and Hamlet cannot, once again, tell whether he is mad. He used to feign it, he thinks, once, but now it's easy as breathing (but breathing isn't easy, breathing is hard, living is hard, thinking is hard)--and Horatio looks to be made of rosemary, from his gentle eyes to his loving hands, which are touching, stroking, caressing, safe and good but filled with remembrance. Horatio is kissing him, and Horatio's breath--Horatio's easy breath, because for him breathing is easy--smells of rosemary. Smells of remembering.
Hamlet doesn't breathe easily, but he sucks in his breath, to steal the smell of rosemary, the kiss, the remembering: because he must remember being kissed. He must remember the taste of love. Horatio is made of rosemary, and Hamlet thinks one day he will go mad, truly mad, and it will not be feigned at all, and then he will need to remember, need to remember, the rosemary, the kiss, the love--because he will be mad, it will be true, and then he will be alone.
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