We Both Know

He stands there,
expectant,
alternately
demanding and
baby-bird,
infuriated and
frightened,
and he looks to me for answers
about the heart of his
that he gave me
for safekeeping,
but I have none
to give him,
as I set it aside
some time ago,
when I found it grown hard to me,
heavy to carry.
He is heavy now, too,
with unshed tears
and a broken set of hopes,
the kind that will never be
shining again,
but will be cobbled together
and refashioned
in order to look
as though they belong together.
He stands there,
and he is obstinate
in his declarations of love,
as though they mean
something,
as though they ever could,
when we both know
his heart was not yet
his own to give,
nor should I have been entrusted
to carry it,
even if it were.

New Language Of Love

.. / -... . .-.. .. . ...- . /
- .... .- - / -.-- --- ..- / .- .-. . / - .... . / - .- .-.. . /
.. / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -.. .. ... -.-. --- ...- . .-. --..-- /
- .... .- - / -.-- --- ..- / .- .-. . / .- / -. . .-- / .-.. .- -. --. ..- .- --. . /
..-. --- .-. / -- . / - --- / .-.. . .- .-. -. --..-- /
.. -. / ... - .-. --- -.- . ... / .- -. -.. / ... - .- -... ... --..-- /
.. -. / -.- .. ... ... . ... / .- -. -.. / -... .. - . ... --..-- /
.. -. / -.-. --- ..- .--. .-.. .. -. --. / .- -. -.. / -.-. --- .--. ..- .-.. .- - .. -. --. .-.-.- /

- .... . / -.. .. ... - .- -. -.-. . / ..-. .-. --- -- /
-- -.-- / .... .. .--. / - --- / -.-- --- ..- .-. / .... .. .--. /
.-- .. .-.. .-.. / -. . ...- . .-. / . -..- -.-. . . -.. /
-.-- --- ..- .-. / .-. . .- -.-. .... --..-- /
-.-- --- ..- .-. / --. .-. .- ... .--. --..-- /
.- -. -.. / .. / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / ..- -. -.. --- /
-.-- --- ..- .-. / - --- -. --. ..- . / .- -. -.. / ... .... .- .--. . / .. - /
- --- / -. . .-- / .-- --- .-. -.. ... /
- .... .- - / -- . .- -. / .-.. --- ...- . /
--- ..-. / --- -. .-.. -.-- / -- . .-.-.-

Waking To These Thoughts

Dreams were still there, still coming, the kind that left him waking in a cold sweat, chilled and petrified, feverish and trembling.

The world was terror for him, in the dark moments of waking in the middle of the night, and a most painful realization struck him as he realized that she was not there to touch his cheek, to cool his fever or whisper away his nightmares.

She would not be there, because there was a man who was her lover, and there were children who needed her more than he did.

There was a bond of her flesh now, of her blood, and it had nothing to do with him.

There is a kind of horror reserved for the moment the mind makes an awful leap of logic to which the heart would never, ever consent, or for a moment even dream.

If I’d killed them in retaliation, if I’d been a moment sooner back at the house

She would be alone — would she be any less broken? More broken?

Would he then, if the memories returned, be able to live with himself if he pursued her?

Waking to these thoughts was no better than the nightmare in which bloodied lovers and loved ones accused him with rotting faces, cursing him for living while they were nothing but bones in the ground.

A Piece Of Him

“Where is she?”

“D’know–“

The thud echoed wetly in the dark room, and there was a dripping sound as spatter connected with floor and walls.

“Where is she?”

“Told you, I–“

Another thud, but the sound was turning into a wet smack, high and liquidy. It was the sound of the color of open wounds and fresh bruises.

“Where is she?”

“She’s fuckin de–“

The word was cut off in mid snarl, and the odd sound of bones and teeth cracking inserted a disturbing crunch into the rhythmic smack of flesh on flesh.

“Where is she?”

“Fugg off–“

The words were becoming mush in a mouth of paste; saliva and blood coating gashed knuckles that were bared time and time again, driven against jaw and nose and eye.

“Where is she?”

“I d’know–“

Another blow, another smack; he wouldn’t believe the answer, wouldn’t stop the questions, wouldn’t let go of the idea he had in the back of his mind, where his reptile brain basked beneath the tiny sun of ‘She’s still alive’ and kept itself warm, kept itself breathing.

“Where is she?”

“…”

The silence snapped something in him, something vital, and those electric blue eyes went out, went blank. A piece of him knows the horror he enacted on the poor sod stupid enough to get caught. A piece of him remembers quietly, cataloguing the way a piece of flesh can only take so much abuse before it comes undone like it were made only of red putty.

A piece of him used the black plastic bags and hose like he was taught, and a piece of him woke the rest to marinate it in scotch and cigarettes while it went back to slumbering fitfully, gorged to sickness on blood and screams.

After The Longest Night

After all the wrapping and unwrapping, the lighting and the ribboning and the beauty of the snow and the everything, there will be presents under the tree, and there will be a slightly rounder belly, and more feelings of fluttering there, the life within life.

It’s late, and Blake is exhausted; he’s already gone to bed, and she will be out clicking off the last of the lights when she’ll see, by the Christmas tree, the pale-haired boy, holding a package.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’ve been sent. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll be quick.”

His blue eyes are the ice of the night, ghostly and preciously cool on the outside, an electric warmth behind them only for her, half-hidden, vulnerable.

He offers her the package; in bright red wrapping with gilded holly and brilliantly green glittering ribbon, and says, “The sun came back. After the longest night, didn’t it?” He looks semi-fragile, and apologetic, and his drawn breath shudders a bit, his shoulders shaking.

I miss you. He doesn’t say it, miserable and aching, desperately wanting, but knowing she hates him, fears him.

I was sick. He wants to shout it, scream it, beg forgiveness, plead his case.

He knows it won’t matter.

Inside the package is a strangely smooth piece of crystalline rock or maybe it’s glass. It shines blackly, desperately cold, oddly hungry.