Frayed

He touches her skin with a lover’s intent, but sparkles fail to glitter. She wills them into existence; she begs the shiver to swim in her veins. Realization sinks like lead into the well of her sorrow, ever expanding ripples in the grey waters until tears sting the backs of her eyes. She holds them there as she stifles a gasp and she wonders if he can taste the forced fervor in her kiss.
Time and again it happens this way and she hates herself for lying. Her lips never speak untruths but her heart fails to leap and therein lies the real deception.

He says the fated words, three icicles shattering on the pavement of her soul. She wishes she could glue them back together as if he never said them, wishes she could return the pieces in their original purity, but there isn’t time for that. She knows what is expected of her – and who does she really have to blame but herself? She knows he doesn’t see through her. He doesn’t want to. And so she mimics his romantic admission, melted ice becoming black rivers in her blood.

Her heart hardly beats at the thought of him; in fact, it seems to flutter more ardently as she ponders her potential freedom, like a bird trapped inside basement rafters on a sunny day. She is losing herself as the days drag on. She dies a little more each time his eyes brighten when he sees her.
She is sure she is defective in some way – when he holds her she burns with indecision, overheated in the circle of his arms. She is floating in a sea of safety, and the only handhold is the ladder to complacency.
She knows she would rather drown.

And so she ends it, just as she always knew it would. She asks him if he ever suspected their demise and he answers no. There is nothing but sincerity behind his glassy eyes and she resists the urge to gag at the pain she knows she is putting him through.
He won’t hate her though she begs for it. The well of her tears has finally overflowed and she feels it is bottomless, so endlessly do they fall. He thanks her for respecting him. If only he knew. The salt water rivers on his face cut canyons in her heart and she aches to know she is the cause of his agony. He is so good, so kind, loyal, and honest.
She doesn’t deserve to be happy for hurting him this way. She isn’t sure if it is worth wanting fire on her skin when she fears his heart will forever remain frozen.

His one request is that she continues as his friend, for that is what they have become, is it not? She ponders his plea, and later begs advice from objective listeners.
No, they tell her. Be wise. You will only hurt him more.
She knows they speak truth and yet she is selfish, she wants to have her cake and eat it too and damn them all, she agrees. She trusts his declaration that it will carry on as a mere friendship, that he won’t beg her back nor accept her repeal should she feel so inclined to offer it.
And so she leaves the black ribbons of heartache uncut, the edges as yet unraveled, and she prays they will stay that way. But loose ends left to tarry in the wind often meet a tattered demise. She forgets she already knew that. She longs for a flame, shimmering heat to melt the frayed boundaries of her heart, numb, unfeeling hardness left behind. He stands before her now, and they both know this is the true finale. He asks her to reconsider.
But she has made her decision and there is no going back, though she stings all over at the thought of him with another. She is surprised she hasn’t yet suffocated in the black tar of selfishness nestled where her heart should be. Maybe that is her punishment. To long for death, to ache for a respite from the scalpel through her gut and never receive it.

He struggles to keep his composure as she turns to walk away. For his sake he can’t know she is barely held together, like an ice cube in August, and it is only a matter of time before she disappears completely.
The echo of his words is chiseled on her soul.
“Goodbye, my love.”
She watches him through the window as he slowly fades from sight, the defeated slump of his shoulders forever imprinted on her memory. She whispers to the universe to give him the woman of his dreams, pledging her own perfect match as a sacrifice for his happiness. Raindrops run across the glass pane, colors blurring together, the dripping scene something Monet would paint.

She realizes it’s only her tears.