Thu, 19 May 2005

a vision
We stood in the center of the pond and washed our hands and knives, her and I, faded pink stains like some tremens-damaged script along the neckline of her white linen dress, child-made charms sewn into her hair and devils passing through her, caught on the wind, the sun doubling my vision until the stones beneath my feet seemed some second world, quieter than the chirp and rustle of the dried weeds and browning trees around us, the promise of a first fall frost in the sight of our breath as we wade deeper, my arms ache to keep my hands above water, tempted to put my ear to the water and listen to the quiet and try to find the voice, the hint of a cry, but I stand still before her, terrified to touch her, a mutual mumbling between us emptied of all meaning, just noise to hide our actions from god, do not see us, do not see the terrible thing we have to do.
(12:23.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #