Seeing

seeing love for the despair that lies underneath.

She lay on the floor beside her bed, the suns rays barely reaching her peach skin.
She seems mute to answer my calls, blind to see me, deaf to hear me.
I lift her up, my arm sliding beneath the curve of her back.
I sit her up and her arms reach out for the empty space, for the absence, for the vanishing warmth.
Her slender fingers stretch across the fading patchwork pulling in her serrated, scattered pieces.
She draws her arms up close to her chest, her knuckles white with effort, her breathing erratic.
She turns her head to look at me and through the red, shimmering strands of hair; I see the face of a broken friend.
Her spirit failing and quivering in the roaring wind. A fire amidst the raw gale.
I see the inner nature that her turmoil has called out.
I see the consequence of loving and caring.
I see the jarring truth that tries to hide itself beneath the fake smiles and false demeanors.

Author's Note

fictional piece
advice, criticism, and all that jazz welcomed and appreciated!

Reviews

[An owl on the moon]

I can see the faint light coming through the window. You write with such a depth of understanding, caring for one in such anguish and pain; separated from life and love as it were. Again, just magnificent...