Prose – “The Black Rose” – Romance – 4/7/2020

She flew about the room with as much grace as could the swan find its course through the beaten river. For her eyes were laced with as much sadness and pity for herself, like a cat that had been extracted of its claws. She could not fight against the pushing tide of pain, coming to swarm her in either direction, both left and right, for she was swollen. Swollen with the shame that has lasted for many long and loathing years.

I knew her. I knew her, just as easily as the last man had taken her in his arms. For a night, we all can kiss her. For one sweet night, we all can hold her, like we hold our own scepter to our own war.

Love is not the closest companion to God, but the imperfection to his creation. Man. The image of His image, the imperfection that continually turns away from the sun. It is the imperfection that turns eyes down into the abyss of something made for the burial, not the remembrance. Of one’s own pain, of one’s own past, one lets go, though cannot forget.

A beauty of indescribable nature, within each crease to her lips, and each height to her brows.

There had been of her, as I once knew her, the only state to know her in. Though, her beauty matched whatever bride God held for himself, as best as I could imagine it.

A face where each cheek seemed as though the world could fall over either end, and crash where nothing matters except the hair that glistens in the rain of sunshine. Each tress comes curling over her chin in fewest idle strands, as though stuck there, without tiniest motion. I saw of her eyes, the pain brought forth with the display of tears, though could easily recede from it to find something a bit more shallow. Shallow, though not in the slightest way undignified. For I saw of her eyes, appearing as a set of coals, the blackness of something far more infinite than the broken aspects of her soul. I saw what mused me, being what could grow from anything as black as the fertile soil of dried molten rock.

I reached to place what little I could, into her open heart, upon the night we laid on the embers that so many lovers know of. Life grew silent during the moments we rolled in them. Death was in our hearts, for we knew not which direction the world spun. Death was our comfort, because silence was all to hear.

I reached to place comfort, despite how comfort could not matter. I allowed her hair to fall like needles over my skin. I breathed her scent, that which was a fragrance of something that sheds vulnerability. Like an open wound, it stunk of the iron, running loose like that shrieking metals upon the tracks, going to a destination of nowhere.