disclaimer : I am not J.K Rowling.

La petite mort

she supposed she died with that man
in the Second Wizarding War.

her life now an extended joke without its punchline,
she was going through its motions like puppet on strings,
a mute screaming somewhere within her chest
that she tried to comprehend.

her face had turned all angles and hard planes,
her eyes were shadowed under.
she isn't beautiful like she was when she meets him.
but it does not seem to matter
when she sees the same hollow, deadened look in him,
smells the whiskey in his breath when she kisses him.

he wears the face of that man who died,
holding dearly onto his mask of mirth to hide.
and she supposes this is how she feels alive,
ignoring their subtle differences,
having innuendo filled conversations and mock serenades.

she supposes it is easier on the gnawing guilt to know
that she wasn't the only one trying to recreate
the life of that dead man.

so it all ends like this,
on a soft bed with furious pounding within her,
after an extended foreplay of words and bodies.
and she supposes it is an anticlimax.
like death, jagged and abrupt,
after you have lived so long and tried so hard.

the accompanying suffocation was like drowning underwater,
the screaming in her chest grows louder,
the whistling in her ears gets sharper.
she gasps as if she broke the surface of the water,
and breathes as if its her first breath when he rolls off her.
the suffocation gone,
her hearts beats with euphoria, relief and shame.

she supposes they both are wrestling
with their sense of incompleteness,
lying on his bed on that sunday afternoon.
but when he seeks her hand to hold,
her eyes fill with hot tears,
she seeks his chest to cry on.

they are finally,
just George and just Angelina.

notes : my original version of this was more bleak and had a rhythm to it, but i wanted the last line to end like it did here, so here it is. Oh and the title is french for "little death" and it is also used as a popular idiom for orgasm.

if you like it, please review. :)