Last time you spoke to me, my love, it was two winters past.
You held me to your bedside with an unyielding grasp You watched me with your close eyes, rendering me immobile And you turned my heart to stone, my love, more and more every night. Selfishly I used to wish every day would be your last. One night, I thought that your light had finally dimmed But I was wrong, my love, and when I awoke the next day, you were still with your body All I wanted was to watch your weak ember surrender All I wanted was for you to finally die And I was going to help you do so It was strange, my love, when you spoke for the first time in days For the only words you spoke were of joy Did you even realize, my love, that I have never felt joy? That you kept me from this feeling of bliss? And so I was ready for you to have no joy no life And after I had finally made you leave, my love Nothing but a smoldering fire provided light in your gray room.
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Mimi WytheA collection of gothic short stories. Archives
March 2015
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