I wrote this several months ago, but never published. I didn’t think I could add anything else to it. -D

She cries for me, for things I don’t understand and can’t grasp. She cries for my lack of understanding, my inabilities, my blindness, she weeps for them openly, unashamed. That I look at her with such detachment, that furrowed brow she’s soothed so easily before only hurts her deeper.

She’s on her knees, her arms crossed over her chest as she tries to contain herself, keep it from spilling on the floor and staining my shoes, wetting my feet. Contain herself within her chest, her heart, but it’s bleeding, leaving her in spite of her will and I can only watch her, blind.

I blink and hear her sobs. They wash over me only an echo, a ghost. Her forehead touches the floor, her body shaking. I step back from the puddle of color that stains the wood, spreading outward. I don’t want her grief to touch me. Her fingers fall to the floor, but she can’t push herself up. Somehow I know, her head is too heavy to lift, but the stain is coming closer and I inch back away from it.

I can taste her need of me. I feel the liquid on my shoes, my feet, feel it crawling up my legs. Her fingers wrap around my leg, her face upon my stained shoes, my legs, but I am brittle and crumble slowly away from her touch. Ash.

Only the stain remains.