[Image by Rhyn Williams]
[Inspired by Foreign Fields’ “Little Lover”:]
Lying on the floor, cold
and dirty, shivering not
because of this, not because
of her near nudity, but the shock –
realisation he wasn’t coming.
Hand outstretched across the floor,
palm up and waiting, shaking,
she grasped but darkness
and only the shadows embraced her.
Lying on the floor, tears
running down his cheeks,
tracks of sorrow tracing his pain –
realisation she was gone; taken.
His hand lay, palm up, against the floor,
eyes taking in scuff marks of struggle.
Instead of air, he wished he held
her hand, in his, together again.
Her body aching, beaten
and bruised by her captor, she rued
but the day she’d left him.
Her fingers traced a memory
of his skin across the floor. Her tears
moistened and mixed with the dirt,
cheek sliding down to breast
as she curled into foetal position.
She sobbed wretchedly.
They’d lain here only two weeks
ago, wrapped around each other,
never letting go. Sure of their
love, their life; everything.
This new loss was
a knife in his gut:
he curled himself into a ball
to block out the pain, cheek
sliding against the signs of her fight,
her will to survive.
All because of him.
Opposite sides of the city, yet
connected, these two.
The stolen and the bereft; still
they exist as one, mirror image
[Copyright © N R Nolan 2015]