Fractured flight

He watched her in her deepest sleep. 

Nail marks scarred her fragile cheeks. 

Her breath so gentle, her body weak. 

Even in rest she depicted tragedy. 

Crying in the bathroom, she scratched away the sadness drowning her face. Staring at her own reflection, a beckoning insanity, coruscating. She’d watched him, these last few days, and wondered whether he had any awareness of his consistently communicated self-sacrifice, his adamant certainty of annihilation. The deepening torture hollowing out her organs, dragging her to a hell she so effortlessly graced. Elegantly waltzing the flames, like the devil itself. She laughed through the despair, at the acceptance of belonging, at the recognition of wanting to be a part of its kill, briefly, dancing with its inimitable, endearing force of lost.

Somewhere between outer space and terra firma, I float. The past four days perfect in initial memory, until I recall the half dozen times my heart fractured. Four days, so simply quarantined, pristinely segregated from every other touch of intruding life, of veins connected pumping tainted blood into the thick of it, barricading the purest form of just - being. Without the eyes, the thoughts, the work, the judgements, the family calling, paths crossing, impacting, changing, distorting the course with an array of agendas. Four glorious days of just... being.

And with that came the dark. The death. The tears. The fleeting, lightening strike of now, of happiness that quickly tore away, back to what was known. 

She wanted to scream through the storm.

The turbulent shake, troubled forlorn.

His smiling eyes so full of grit. 

Unaware of his compelling beauty.

Dying.

His love for her 

unrestrained.

He'd rage 

against her doom.

It's only what 

she makes it.

And make it 

she will…. soon.