Sickness

The medicine is too cold to be real. It looks like a sack of over-eaten bread - brown and slightly soggy." Her eyes were too brown. Her hands shook slightly, like leaves, making her feel soft and insubstantial. She wore wool sweaters to keep out the cold, and wrapped her shawls around her like a toga. Maybe her fragility was more that of a grecian urn, waiting to be broken, only she lacked the grace of glazed pottery, strewn with shields and men who felt each other's thighs.

You remember him and think of every wrong you've ever done, and tell yourself not to be such a girl. You imagine his eyes piercing into the un-heaviness of every step, the slight totter you have when you've drunk too much coffee, and you long for wine.

Sometimes you wonder if your body has failed you. The heart has grown tired of pumping and your legs resemble shriveled twigs; your skin has become moldy, like rotten figs. Perhaps if you could suck the sap from his lips, you would feel the like you again; a strong sapling yearning gently for the grass - but his lips have shriveled up like dry figs; his voice has grown softer than your breasts and quieter than the beating of your heart.

At night, there are no more shadows - only the moon softly curving over the your windowpane, like a lover trying to hug her lost lover.