It's Not That He Was

He Reminded Me Of Someone Who Put Your Fingers In The Door And Smiled And Talked To You While He Smashed Them.

I Tried Writing Fiction As A Little Kid, But Had A Teacher Humiliate Me, So Didn't Write Again Until I Was A Senior In College.

Love Could Never Bloom In A Concrete Block Room.

Wasn't That The Way It Always Was? You Didn't Know, You Couldn't Tell, You Just Let It Happen... Perhaps They Didn't Know Themselves. Sometimes The Line Was Very Fine.

So Much Wanting And Longing, Clutching, Desiring, Passion And Hatred And Terrible Need. Here, Death Was Suitable, There Was Room For It, The Grip Of Life's Relentless Urges Slackened, Replaced By This Icy Simplicity. This Wasnt Her Death. It Was His. That Was The Sad And Honest Truth. Though It Would Stay With Her, It Would Be More Like A Black Onyx Heart On A Silver Chain, Worn Privately, Under Her Clothes, Close To Her Body, All Her Life. The Guilt, The Beauty, Everything. It Wasnt Over, It Had Only Begun. Well Ok Then, Okay.