The clarity of his affection for her was wasted in the haziness of her response. He's mad on her. If he had any heels his head would have been over them weeks ago. She sits in the centre of his conscious and unconscious thought, and there she remains, waiting. There are no meaningful gestures, words spoken through dedicated promise-filled eyes. He scrambles around in the greyness of their time together, grasping for such moments, longing to record and replay them in the quasi-private space inside his head. Disappointment rolls in overhead. The greyness turns to charcoal and he stops, stock-still. Moments glide by like graceful swans. Acceptance shakes him by the hand and he sees Resignation ahead. "I love her," is the whisper from pale lips.
"I once loved her."
"Let her go."
No comments:
Post a Comment