A Common Crime

There are no other witnesses, just us two, the only two who will ever see what happened here today. The only two who would ever know about the death that had occurred here today. No one saw, no one heard. No one felt it but them, as they were torn apart by the words that were said. The seams that held them together ripping on the pressure that was applied them. Like the barrel of a gun shoved against their heads as they lay side by side. So one left, the heat to much to handle, leaving nothing but blood stains as this one ripped them about. Pulling important pieces of the other off and carrying them away. Always and forever, the scars will be on the flesh of that one’s heart. Not all of us get to heal in the arms of another. Some of us stay to try to nurse the wounded back to health. This one hands under Love’s head as the blood pools around, watching the other one leave with one last kiss, and a promise of returning one day. Returning to what? The victim you left for dead, who you never glanced back at. Is that what the other will return to? Is this one supposed to wait in a pool of blood until the other returns? Hoping that the other will return and repair the damage save the love. Love seems to be immortal so after the time past this one stopped worrying about him. Trust was badly wounded and showed no real signs of healing. Emotion was shut down in a corner refusing to talk. This one got up to check the horizon for the other who had gone, only to see that there were no signs of return. So this one got up, changed out of blood stained clothes and covered the scars left from that day. This one knew no one would ever be able to tell what had occurred here that day. Not even the two who witnessed these events, because time was pushing those thoughts further in the back of their minds. Their hearts had once been welded together with a bond once thought to be unbreakable. It was now broken but it would never been truly severed. This one knew that because every now and then this one feels the ache of that connection. The pull of that thread that once held this one to the other so closely, so fiercely. This one also knows what this one will never admit, that the crime committed was one seen every day. Everyone will suffer from this at least once in their lives. This one’s knows that this one’s circumstances were not special, nor were they unique. This one’s tale was most likely like a million others but that did not stop this one’s pain. Or help this one’s when this one was crying. This one knew that this one would never know what the other was thinking. Or if the other had suffered at all or if this would ever look insufficient to this one. If this one would ever really stop mourning the death of herself.

Let it be known that every phoenix rises from her ashes, reborn.