~ kittykittyhunter ~

He did not say that his love was deep, for those were dull words and his mind was filled with rhyme. His thoughts hummed with bright tunes. He could pluck gems from dirt. For this, her eyes grew glazed at the sight of him. He was all that she could see.

There were times when the bride and groom sat in the green field – she twirled a sweet dance, arms flying up and down in the wind and he, feet crossed, smiled. The lyre in his lap played a soft song, strung from his soul. He knew on those days that there was naught that he craved.

She was brave and mild. He was wise and strong.

They matched.

Like the sun and the moon, they fit. Like the dawn and the dusk, they worked. Like the day and the night – she was more than a phrase or verb could say.

The world was cruel.

He told her that his heart was faint. The ink on his hands was dry: he could not write, his verse would not flow. She said that it would be best if he went for a walk, if he found the stream that curved around a tree – if he searched for a dream. He took pace, a vow on his lips that he would soon be home.

She had to run. She was a chased by a foe – she ran and did not look where she stepped.

When he came back, he found his wife curled on the grass. Her foot bled. Her skin was white and her lips were blue and her pulse was dead.

The lyre in his hand did not fall. His thumb pressed on the string. As the first note cried, his tears dripped.