My darling, how long it has been since I last wrote you
He smiled his triumphant grin and held his head aloft, as if a king entering a parade
Having seen it completed, it filled her with such glee
A long golden streak had formed along the last edge of early evening sky
Suddenly the notion struck him that he might end the whole affair here and now with one long
Exclamation that would sever her to the core
Strange how so little passion can be drained from our inner beings
When all that remains is the memory of what was once so much
His voice was deep and earnest, yet painful to the touch
Suppose I should recover the past and try to bring it forward
Awaiting another prompting, I felt around and took a long swig of my drink
If it could all be so clear, so perfect, so crystalline fine and serene
Instead of stilted, suffering, sorrowful, superfluous, sickened
Shall we hold the knife here and dissect the deepest pains of our love?
Or merely use that same blade to sever the heads of our spirit bodies and
Cast them aside into
the dark abyss?
Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.