A Tragic Tale of Lovers

The rest was a haze. The cold floor against my cheek, burning. My eyes were tearing from the pan in my left arm. I lay on it. My body was crushed. How weak I was. I could hear my small pitiable sounds, like a newborn kitten. My chest hurt, every rib broken. But my pain soared above me, taunted my motionless body. Then I could feel her hand, playing with my hair. Could see her big beautiful eyes right by my face. Her sweet breath on my face. In some miraculous effort, strengthened from the sight of her beside me, I got up from my grave on the stone floor. She took my hand, helped me, and touched my face. Whispered words I couldn't hear and didn't care about. She put her hands on my waist, held me close. My stilted, empoisoned body leaned against her warmth. Around, back and forth. Her hands, her eyes. Her silent words. I was lost. I was sure death was teasing me before casting me in the hole below my rigid body; in the pit and furnace of earth where my soul would be seized for eternity. I ran, she grabbed my arm. I pushed her away, she pressed me closer. I screamed and she slapped my face. So I stayed, danced. Her soft hair rested against my burning cheek. Oh, it hurt more than my heart, but I was afraid to scream again. I was out of breath, hard to breath. The pain, the hurt and my angel. They twisted me, they turned me. I danced. I asked her to stay with me forever and she raised her head from my shoulder and looked me in the eyes. Light coming from nowhere shone in her eyes, like lanterns. They were set ablaze by my words, her lips parting. Her beautiful round face nearing mine. I did not run away, nor did I push her away. I had let it go, let myself go. At the bottom of the stairs in the shadows of love she kissed me. What it felt like, I can not remember. My eyes shut and I hid behind them, drowning in my tears. As her face returned from mine she answered me with another whisper.
- Yes. Always.

I loved, and then I learned. That winter she taught me the world. I knew everything about her. I still know it. My hair grew back down to my shoulders. She used to twirl her fingers in it, make long curls in my big, unruly hair. And the way she tugged on it, played with it on the tip of my nose; irreplaceable. Every time I saw her, shivers battled through my thick blood, from my stomach to my fingertips and toes. Those eyes, those unforgettable eyes that could eat me up and chew me into small, craving pieces and spit me out and yet leave me hungering for them.
She gave me a picture once, her hair in a strong wind. Invisible hands grasped her hair and drew her enchanting face closer to the surface of the photo. Locks of hair clinging to her lips and each other in an odd and carefree dance.
It was on a beach, the clear water behind her. Her skin was sunny and her cheeks seemed to bulge out because of the sweat. Though it was bad photo, she was as remarkable so I hung it beside my bed. That photo, her glorious face, her hair, that threw me in the pit and dug me down deep. Her eyes, our doom, my endless, restless, merciless hurt.
That photo that sent me away.