The Evening Dies

The Evening Dies
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The evening dies of its own accord

the quiet, the pleasure of

each other’s company

smiles, wordless rapport

affectionate glances

the interlacing of fingers

she stands before the mirror,

you nestle behind her

she sighs

her lips pull back

as you run your fingers

through her hair

with one hand

and rub a bare shoulder

with the other

you drink deep

her presence,

happy you’ve chosen

to be together

you tease a lack

her smile fades –

in the mirror

for no reason at all

she imagines

you suddenly grinning

in a crooked sort of way

eyes glinting maliciously

you grab her about the throat

with your right hand

and slam the side of her head

with your left

cleanly breaking her neck

the fantasy evaporates –

she gasps, as if for air

in the mirror you both see

what’s in the other’s eyes

her body tightening in mistrust

your body going limp

with shock and disappointment

she leans her head back

against your left shoulder

rubs affectionately

but you both know

in a moment

a line was crossed

there’s

no turning back

and you both retreat

into yourselves….

The return of the repressed! Sorry for not coming back sooner, but I lost my password and resetting is such a hassle. I wasn't being standoffish. This poem is about trust, or rather lack of trust. Trust is the bedrock of love - without it, everything is just words. Macabre perhaps, but I was trying to make a point. Best wishes....



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