Crimson

February 7, 2009
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He leaves her in the glow of the streetlamp, promising to return with a new life, his parting kiss still burning her lips. She waits endlessly for him, his crimson shirt pocket on the horizon. The sun rises, sevenfold, and still she gazes. Watching, waiting, hoping to fill her empty arms. Urban vines twist coldly about her limbs, pull her to the ground.

Darkness.

Lillies and cigar smoke overwhelm her waking breath, silk binds her legs. Eyes of dark promise hover near, she cries out, a laugh pierces the air.

She is his.

Her new dress, always heavy, always tightening. Her face, caked with powder, salt stinging her bloodshot eyes. An unfamiliar body ever entwined with hers, night after night. A new life, her desire, yet still she waits. Body fragile, mind ever blank, paraded about for hours each day. She thinks only of him, and she is content.

Finally cast away, left under the familiar glow of a streetlamp once more, to wait...for what? She traces over the corners of her mind, searching desperately. Finding nothing. All hope has at last faded, and she is ready. She falls back, cement tearing at her alabaster skin, hair tangled, eyes gently closing for the last time. Rough hands grab her shoulder, shock her, and her eyes halt their descent. A flash of red fills her vision, a crooked smile and a faint whisper escape,

"I waited".





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