She waits for him

Can you sit with great purpose?

Because that’s what she did, both hands on her lap,

a stern expression, cemented and unmoving on her face,

eyes facing directly forward, stripping away all matter

that came between her eyeball and the door;

no, not the door, but the very frame of it, for when it swings open,

it’s not the crystal knob, the Molave plane that has stood guard

these many years, but what will stand on that entrance way

and its black cloak — the cover of darkness — its facelessness,

and the cold chill that creeps and gently caresses the skin

with bony fingers and an apprehensive greeting.

 

He only wants to make her acquaintance,

he has heard so much about her, about her kindness and generosity,

and the spirit that has kept her so strong despite the storms,

despite the changing of the tides and the lost horizon,

but she knows his friendship is enduring and non-negotiable;

once you go with him, you never return.

 

And so she waits for him,

She keeps her gaze solidly level on the exit–

or the entrance, depending on how you look at it–

while her body melts under the weight

of her fear of what lies beyond, of the places he’ll take her

and of all that she will leave behind,

in a gaseous mist of memory,

a wisp of once-being

and then

all

that

is

unknown.

 

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