In his dreams, he would know exactly
what to say to make her forgive him
He would touch her face
frozen with disuse
bloodless and cold as the moon
He would see her lie there
beautiful and devastated
a stillborn of creation, and
she would stare out at the sea,
and see nothing
she would become nothing,
for she was tired of pretending.
she was tired of being in love.
In his dreams he knew,
He knew he had killed her
as surely as if he had used a knife;
with his selfishness,
And lust. Always lust.
And in some stupid, maddeningly idiotic way
he had thought it wouldn't have mattered
to him; to see how her hands faded away,
how her eyes faltered, to feel her leave him.
But it did.
He needed her.
Without her, all was devoid of meaning
Without her, he had no words.
Forgive me, he would say.
Forgive me.
In his dreams, he knew.