In white she appears, taking his breath,
though in truth he’d lost it a century before.
Her, he’d lost
seven plus
forty plus
one hundred days ago.
A hero’s death, though it matters not.
She stands small, weary from her journey,
her hands torn and bloodied. No one guesses
how they got so damaged, but he knows,
having fought the same battle back from the grave.
He is tender, soothing her wounds with
Mercurochrome and gauze, the only one
she can feel tortured with. He knows torture,
having dished out and taken his share.
Her sadness spills from his eyes and he
slams his hand. In his dreams, he’d saved her.
But despite strength, despite promises, despite
love, she died.
I’m fine, she lies, struggling to make it
from one moment to the next. Her secret,
she shares only with him. She can’t let
her friends know what she’s lost.
She was in paradise, not purgatory,
ripped back into a world of darkness
by those who claim their love.
Now they expect her to be happy.
But what is happiness to a soul
that’s been at peace? Can a story,
once complete, begin again?