Her harsh, unrelenting stare pains me. Her eyes fixedly peer through my own, ignoring my dark irides, which, unheard, plead with her to have mercy. With cold determination, they delve past the milky whites and reach into my soul. Not with the reach of gentle hands, which caress with warmth and concern for what lies within, but with a frigid probing which coldly analyzes, uncaring, as a prison warden tears apart a prisoner’s cell. Her eyes are cold, the vast pools which once warmed my soul with their caring looks are now frozen over, desolate, hard, barren of any love or compassion. At one time I could lose myself in her loving gaze, bright ponds which pulsated slightly with a passionate sentiment of endearment. But now she stares at me blankly, unmoved.
Her mouth is rigid. Perhaps a flummoxed twitch stirs at the corner, but otherwise it remains stiff. They are unwelcoming, having the appearance of being rough and unpleasant to the touch, as though cast from concrete and left unpolished. In the now seemingly distant past (Oh how I yearn for that past in this moment!), her soft lips serenaded me with words of comfort and warmth, prose thick and fragrant like pillowy plumes from the chimney of a bakery, and even, at certain moments of passion, her lips took my own in loving embrace. No matter what bitter cold I endured in this difficult world, I knew that when in her presence her pleasant words would warm my heart, a much desired blanket on a cold day. But now they sit locked in silent derision.
Her visage, though only feet away from my own, is distant, seemingly nothing could be further from my grasp at this moment. Her slender nose is slightly tensed, twitching with agitated confusion. Her thick, well shaped eyebrows are furrowed with disdain. Her overall disposition bears a slight pout, filled with frustration and anger—an anger that does not inspire passion or a desire to mend our fractured bond, but rather one that fosters desertion and disengagement. She is fixed in this state, awaiting some respite from my presence. The silence castigates me. Disarmed, I look back pleadingly. What sin could I have committed to deserve this torture? What could make her turn so suddenly against the one she once loved?
Leave a Reply