Liquid

And so she dusted the gold off her fingers

while his yellow eyes dulled to brown.

And the fascination they once held for each other

yielded to slumber in a bathe tub to drown.

So it was only the porcelain grave that knew

Of the way she pressed her lips to his collarbone

And decorated him with the words “I love you”

Or why, some how, he had always known

she would let him in, if he moved slowly closer.

Yes, that was how the friendship had grown.

He had started out as some sort of brother,

captivated by casual feminine curves

and stern yet smiling eyes of clover.

While she enjoyed his impish child-like pride,

a wiry body, too strong for it’s size,

and the comfort of having a someone to guide.

As these things go, neither could fathom

how they had so quickly become one soul

in two bodies, or so says Aristotle’s wisdom.

Each spoke to the other with out agenda or qualm

relishing banter, advice, and general chatter while

gravity pulled head into lap and palm into palm.

But, you see, as luck would have it,

life stepped in to wreak it’s havoc

both of these creatures were bearing a burden

the male of which, had to burry his burden

Donning a somber black suit and painful frown,

Deemed new man of the house, a premature crown.

And the female journeyed to the Atlantic.

A sojourn planned too far in advance,

he was left bereft across the North American expanse.

The years passed and the porcelain did chip.

Now with every moon that sets

there isn’t a morn she wakes with out pangs of regret.

For she was not there to protect,

cherish, anoint, kiss, and adore,

the child’s heart that the man that she loved bore.

She and he will never know if she could

have enveloped him in his toil and grievance.

An act that if properly preformed, should

transcend their relationship of cursory romance.

This act you see, is one of beauty

An event that can quite single handedly

give a jaded girl’s and a lost boy’s life some needed meaning.

So I’ll leave to you to decide

who, in the end had the was left with more pride.

Was it he, who lost his father, and a sister or mother or lover,

but learned to swim strong against misfortune’s tide?

He, who eventually forgave the muse of his past.

Who will laugh last? Who will laugh last?

Or was it she who was forcefully taught that pain

and regret are a game both one in the same.

That it’s guilt who wields a splendorous molten wrath.

So, defeated, she dipped her head under,

for a final ceremonial bath.

Succumbing to beautiful slumber.

As the last bubble dimples the now cold water,

one could hardly help but wonder,

What was the burden, what was the strain,

that afflicted the maiden, to a place just past sane?