Leaving her here (with him… alone) makes my heart choke in the pumping of its own blood. But neither instinct nor logic can bring moonlight into eyes that have been shut.
She’s shaking. Not with dread (as she should), but with hope-filled pleasure fed by what lies behind the flash of his sharp teeth. A storm of stillborn action, dammed by my promise to her, thunders behind my eyeballs, threatening to flood the place with reasons why she should run.
Watching his paw possess the small of her back, I yearn for dark woods, for a cottage, and an ax. He presses his snout to her cheekbone. Not the one shadowed by purplish oozing towards green, but the one that sits under unmarred flesh… the one that’s yet to meet his love’s knuckled kiss.
I drop her running-from-his-hell bag at the threshold.
She detangles her body (but not her Self) from him, and walks to the door to hug me goodbye. “Change that face,” she whispers. “I’ve forgiven his mistake.”
I hug her tight against my chest, wanting to hide her cheekbones under my rib cage. With her fragility so close to my despair, I can’t stop the storm from gently thundering into her hair. “Forgiveness is best served with a side order of memory.”
the bright of the moon
casting shadows in winter,
shrouds man-made ruins
“Gaijin Geisha”, by Shelle Kennedy
(The first time I saw this painting, I wondered about what thoughts could have put that look on the geisha’s face… I guess now I know.)