under 25ml's and they steal your toothpaste
Her hand was pulled from his, and with it went his heart. He closed his eyes as a shudder went through his chest. For one pure and irrational moment he wanted to run up the escilator after her, catch her up in his arms and crush her to him. He wanted to kiss her and kiss her and hold her and tell her how much everything had meant to him, and how much he loved her. His body surged forward. The chains of self-restraint bit deeply into him, cutting, halted him in place. A wordless cry parted his lips. His eyes reached out to her, hands strained against invisible cords. Her wilting form retreated up and away from him, pain in her eyes. He had never felt so weak.
As she reached the top of the escalator, he reached out to her, he turned his hand to his lips to still the wailing of his soul. He blew her a kiss. Her leaving was as a knife pulled from a wound. His heart's blood slowly bled from his eyes. The clenching of his trembling jaw kept his lips from twisting in despair as he turned, and placed his belongings into a cheap plastic container.. just things. Just empty things that he carried with him, meaningless.
A sharp voice drew his attention, told him he couldn't wear his belt through the metal detector. A flash of bloodthirsty rage boiled beneathe the surface, that pervasive red. The intrusion was unforgivable. Eyes closed, his throat swallowed, a soothing breath calmed him. Just trying to mask the pain with anger he thought. The realization drained the rage from him as he let the belt fall into the plastic coffin from listless hands. His fingers were numb. She was gone. It hit him like a lead pipe to the stomach. He grimaced and pulled on his jacket.
The tears slowed but wouldn't stop. Head down, eyes forward, he thought, just get the job done. Don't think about- she's gone, I'm leaving her, she's in pain, I can feel her tears on my cheek, he thought. Images seared through his mind: her arms seeking him, her lips trembling, her breath slow and shuddering, her words echoing in his heart...don't go.. said so quietly they could shatter stars.
Restless and numb, his mind shied away from thought. A nagging sense at the edge of his mind. He found his Gate, number 17. He didn't care. He should have run after her. She was probably on her way to the bus, his stomach clenched at the thought. He should have held her, told her he couldn't go. She was probably on her way back to their bed.. Did she know how much he loved her? Did he tell her enough, hold her enough, kiss her enough, cradle her to him enough? That nagging pull again. Yes, what? His mind grabbed hold of him then, that deep and secret self that seldom used to speak that could never again be silenced. It took his head firmly in it's irresistable grip and turned it sharply over and up. There she is, the voice that was not a voice said. She was not on her way out, she was watching him from the railing, tears in her eyes. It was she that was calling to him, willing him to look. It was his anger that had blinded him to the strange telepathy that they had shared on more than one occasion. Suddenly alive, he looked up at her. Her red rimmed eyes, her relieved smile that he had finally heard her wordless cry. A grin brighted his face, like the sun breaking through the clouds. She smiled back and he knew that it would be ok. That she felt it too.
A polite voice repeated that it was time to board the plane. He shook his head, and mouthed that he loved her, unmindful of his suroundings. When he looked at her, she was all he saw. The world had fallen away. He saw his heart in her eyes, and felt her heart in his breast. God, she's beautiful, he thought, touching his lips with the tips of his fingers, breathing his kiss to her. He took her kiss in his outstretched hand, and touched it to his mouth. He closed his eyes, then looked up at her one last time. His eyes brimmed with tears as he turned from her. He showed the impatient woman a piece of plastic that vouched for his identity. How strange, he thought, that we no longer trust eachother to even be who we say we are. That we have to rely on the inanimate to speak for the animate.
The throat-like tunnel that lead to the plane engulphed him as he steped into its demanse. And so, he thought, a chained Apollo is lead broken to the prison of his chariot, to ride the sun West into the past. He was seated over the wing, in a too soft chair, and looked out moodily into a pewter sky. We trade comfort for passion, he thought. Emptiness threatened to consume him as he gazed longingly out to the terminal, to where she had been standing. He whispered his goodbyes to her then, eyes closed, fingers half curled against the payne of the window. He stared out, hopelessly he hoped to catch some glimse of her as he felt the engine snarl, a malicious carrion crow that ached for flight. The force of the world tried to press him back in his seat, but he would not be moved. His gaze never wavered, never blinked. Nothing would keep this last view from him. Nothing would keep him from seeing her dispite the distance and the darkness. He knew she could feel his eyes on her as he was hurled into the sky like some great and screaming meteor. He gazed untill the clouds shrouded his eyes, and stole all sight from him. Blinded, he finally closed his eyes. And as he streaked across the sky toward an empty land, he curled into himself and wept.
As she reached the top of the escalator, he reached out to her, he turned his hand to his lips to still the wailing of his soul. He blew her a kiss. Her leaving was as a knife pulled from a wound. His heart's blood slowly bled from his eyes. The clenching of his trembling jaw kept his lips from twisting in despair as he turned, and placed his belongings into a cheap plastic container.. just things. Just empty things that he carried with him, meaningless.
A sharp voice drew his attention, told him he couldn't wear his belt through the metal detector. A flash of bloodthirsty rage boiled beneathe the surface, that pervasive red. The intrusion was unforgivable. Eyes closed, his throat swallowed, a soothing breath calmed him. Just trying to mask the pain with anger he thought. The realization drained the rage from him as he let the belt fall into the plastic coffin from listless hands. His fingers were numb. She was gone. It hit him like a lead pipe to the stomach. He grimaced and pulled on his jacket.
The tears slowed but wouldn't stop. Head down, eyes forward, he thought, just get the job done. Don't think about- she's gone, I'm leaving her, she's in pain, I can feel her tears on my cheek, he thought. Images seared through his mind: her arms seeking him, her lips trembling, her breath slow and shuddering, her words echoing in his heart...don't go.. said so quietly they could shatter stars.
Restless and numb, his mind shied away from thought. A nagging sense at the edge of his mind. He found his Gate, number 17. He didn't care. He should have run after her. She was probably on her way to the bus, his stomach clenched at the thought. He should have held her, told her he couldn't go. She was probably on her way back to their bed.. Did she know how much he loved her? Did he tell her enough, hold her enough, kiss her enough, cradle her to him enough? That nagging pull again. Yes, what? His mind grabbed hold of him then, that deep and secret self that seldom used to speak that could never again be silenced. It took his head firmly in it's irresistable grip and turned it sharply over and up. There she is, the voice that was not a voice said. She was not on her way out, she was watching him from the railing, tears in her eyes. It was she that was calling to him, willing him to look. It was his anger that had blinded him to the strange telepathy that they had shared on more than one occasion. Suddenly alive, he looked up at her. Her red rimmed eyes, her relieved smile that he had finally heard her wordless cry. A grin brighted his face, like the sun breaking through the clouds. She smiled back and he knew that it would be ok. That she felt it too.
A polite voice repeated that it was time to board the plane. He shook his head, and mouthed that he loved her, unmindful of his suroundings. When he looked at her, she was all he saw. The world had fallen away. He saw his heart in her eyes, and felt her heart in his breast. God, she's beautiful, he thought, touching his lips with the tips of his fingers, breathing his kiss to her. He took her kiss in his outstretched hand, and touched it to his mouth. He closed his eyes, then looked up at her one last time. His eyes brimmed with tears as he turned from her. He showed the impatient woman a piece of plastic that vouched for his identity. How strange, he thought, that we no longer trust eachother to even be who we say we are. That we have to rely on the inanimate to speak for the animate.
The throat-like tunnel that lead to the plane engulphed him as he steped into its demanse. And so, he thought, a chained Apollo is lead broken to the prison of his chariot, to ride the sun West into the past. He was seated over the wing, in a too soft chair, and looked out moodily into a pewter sky. We trade comfort for passion, he thought. Emptiness threatened to consume him as he gazed longingly out to the terminal, to where she had been standing. He whispered his goodbyes to her then, eyes closed, fingers half curled against the payne of the window. He stared out, hopelessly he hoped to catch some glimse of her as he felt the engine snarl, a malicious carrion crow that ached for flight. The force of the world tried to press him back in his seat, but he would not be moved. His gaze never wavered, never blinked. Nothing would keep this last view from him. Nothing would keep him from seeing her dispite the distance and the darkness. He knew she could feel his eyes on her as he was hurled into the sky like some great and screaming meteor. He gazed untill the clouds shrouded his eyes, and stole all sight from him. Blinded, he finally closed his eyes. And as he streaked across the sky toward an empty land, he curled into himself and wept.
posted by Mad Red Carnelian at 4:53 PM
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