Despite her own knowing,
the phrase gave her hope.
Hope that would never come.
Hope that would never prosper
warmly and embrace her.
With that hope, that pathetic hope,
came a smile.
❝ My love, you are quite seasoned
with leaving me at unconventional times. ❞
The blonde’s voice was frail,
as if she were a porcelain doll
frightened of breakage.
But in these moments,
she wouldn’t l e t go of
the other. Apart from
her assured demeanor
of a curtain, her heart
knew.
And it ached.
–––––– ☂ ––––––
“ perhaps I am. ”
her mind was such a twisted labyrinth by then. it
was, in fact, a miracle that she could articulate at
all. the blonde, if anything at all, clearly knew how
to get into the darkest corners of her to extract
some response. perhaps that was her power.
“ but we are seasonably broken, and maybe we spent more intimate
times than any shall ever know, maybe we fought valiantly and broke
apart wistfully, but we existed, did we not? that is sign enough that
we are to move on. with or without one another. you a life you can
live outside of here. I do not. but we’ve always known this was the
means to an end. I was limited from the beginning, but you are not.
go on, and hold on if you must in whatever way, but go on. ”
[ without me. ]