Would he remember?
Would he remember her?
Does he think about the way that black feathers fell like ash around their bodies, and spotted their peripherals? Does he know it marked her vision like it stained her skin? When she said that she was poison, and he said that he would let his limbs rot black; necrosis had never been so beautiful before. He hadn’t said it then with words. He’d said it with his closeness. He’d said it when the feel of his flesh kept her near, made her own body quiver aloud it’s betrayal. He’d said it, would he remember?
“I will always find you,” she says, laughing and crying at the memory.
Because they always told her pretty words when the sad quiet in her eyes begged it of them.
Would she remember?
Would she remember her?
Does she think about the way the river cradled them once – when they felt invincible, when the water whispered false forever’s through the molecules? It felt like magic, and it bled right through their skin to fill the hollow spaces in their bones that evil men carved out. Would she remember the passion as deeply as she remembered the venom? They split the earth into halves with both. They fell in and out of love with miles of blown out crater between them.
They were always on the wrong sides.
“Are you alone?” she asks, knowing that now, they both were.
spyndle
you are the prettiest thing that I will ever know