Her hair is a fan of auburn, red blooming from temples in the way you once saw the sun bleed out into the sky. Her eyes are wide open, gaping, staring at the nothing space between Here and There. In your hand, her hand lies limp, still warm, and your smile becomes an inverted imitation of a blade's swipe. She is beautiful like this, quiet and still and burning --- painting afterimages onto the tiled floor. The clock strikes twelve and you rise, a jolt transformed into fluid motion; one day, the guilt will overwhelm you, but for now, you forget.
La Douleur Exquise
October 10, 2014