Not His Queen Or Close Enough

Under the cover of friendship the words:

"All I can offer is…" fell from his lips.

And syllable by syllable an invisible bullet was fired into her chest.

And living never felt more like dying than in that moment.

Love is the pretty thing we place

in a golden box on some unseen pedestal

because our world is so dreary and full of

darkness and because we fear death and isolation….

Loneliness is not an option. It never can be.

Love gave her the moxie to no longer fear

that unknown future and instead run towards it again

because under the cover of friendship

she would become a shadow that lingered,

looking on at the life she spent so

long building but never touched,

watching on at the life

she could have

had in

bittersweet

agony.

The universe decided to bestow

upon her one of the most painful fukus

and gave her a permanent stone in her belly,

knots that would tie in her gut every time she gazed at him. And he gazed back, but also right through her.

Love is a monster.

Destroying her from the inside out,

making her mind a shattered diamond.

How cruel life had become? How near unbearably crude.

But under the cover of friendship as the words

fell from his lips

the diseases in her mind had raged a war against

the unexplored soul and

reclusion equaled solitude; the best defense against her lovely monster.

Her soul had retreated

and her mind was an aimless wanderer fearful of that

dusty old friend pain.

She had grown so content with the idea of a life

without sensibilities because she had been broken so many times before.

A numb heart drew comfort and security from the gaping abyss that festered inside her!

Her temple could not be invaded or tainted after she spent so long reconstructing.

She built a fortress of character and grit that she vowed to never let another dare attempt to take siege of.

But the man who wore this cover of friendship seemed far from any kind of enemy.

Oh, how a demon can dress so finely.

She thought he was this lone star-crossed wanderer that ached the same way she did, with the stone in his belly. And even when he stood at her gates only briefly and just as he turned to leave, she let down her drawbridge in the moment of her lapsed judgment while for him, her absorbant demon reveled in his infamy.

So entered the man under the cover of friendship. A Shadowman- glimmering in wading in the darkness and who was the golden pretty thing on the pedestal all at once- he was a shimmering diamond fragment that she could piece together in her mind.

People have painted the portrait of love with obedience,

catering to this flustered notion of a

perfect endlessly pastoral era of old age peace

and wholesomeness. And love has been painted

as an excuse for atrocity and calamity,

a love to conquer as seen fit.

We all have heard the whispers about

love's ability to wreck the indestructible,

but no one ever prepares you for that

sublime infliction of misgivings that await us

at the beginning of our journey into the chasm of amour.

Would it have been so bad if under the cover of friendship,

he wrapped her in the arms of some grand rapture as they laid under the stars? And with no manipulation

How foolish she was to think she could drink from an elysian chalice and

how blind he was to look on so faintly at the

underdog and the sovereign in the woman before him?