Movement

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He didn’t know exactly when it happened,
The end of himself, the end of trying to
Placate his lover.
She was like a succubus, a dream that
Lay on him in night’s darkest temple
And wrenched free a moment’s bliss
Then poured forth a pitcher of regret,
Filthy, like dark blood.
But he drove her to a quiet corner of town,
Far from the home he would never let her see,
The home he shared with his partner and the new life
They had just created, full of hope and potential.
When he pulled to the curb, his eyes avoiding hers,
She coiled her fingers around the back of his neck,
Long nails poised to strike, but caressing instead.
And she laughed, as if this end was a joke,
An empty threat like before.
But his eyes were on her now, cold and determined,
And she tightened her grip.
“You are nothing without me,” she whispered.
And he nodded.
He pulled her fingers from his neck and kissed them.
He brushed her cheek and leaned across her, his face close to hers,
And she gasped.
But his fingers gripped the door handle and shoved open the door.
She looked down at cold cement and brick,
Then to his face and the eyes that saw beyond her now.
He leaned in for a final inhalation of her,
His lips above hers, never touching.
“Good-bye,” he exhaled.
And he sat back in his seat and watched
A spry old man in a jogging suit lope across the street,
Pushing a toddler in a stroller.
When he turned, she was gone,
A blur of crimson disappearing around the corner.
Through the open door he heard the child’s giggle.

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