She held him as if no one else had ever held him.
Which couldn’t have been true, he was too easily affectionate:
he’d surely been enfolded in embracing arms before.
She wore him on her breast as if to nest some large, warm,
breathing ornament: a tender brooch which lay on upon,approached to kiss, her heart: the wounded word made sadness –
flesh – the only adequate accessory to her despair she’d ever
dared to hope could come to bless her. He had come; she was
no longer numb. They incrementally became so necessary
to each other’s need to care for, and be cared for by, each other
that they didn’t notice when a door closed in their souls:
isolating them against the rest, the test, the agony of life.
They’d closed a door on strife, they thought – never knowing
I dispassionately only had imagined them. They were a verbal
and a visual experiment which now came to an arbitrary end.
Strange to wake up and discover that you’d only ever been
a game of make-believe, pretend – that you never really were.
This first occurred to him, and last to her.