The Field
She was there. She was there, there in a field, quiet and listening. She heard the wind wrap about her ears and dance across her chest and so consumed by the beaten smell of the earth, the red salt beneath her feet, the obstinance of the darkening sky, the vulnerabilty of the fading sun was she, she did not even realise she was alone.
And she was content. An ink flooding sky meant nothing but the birth of future, the unravelling of next and the promise of a new and welcoming day. She was unaware of you tearing her from her own solitary, prying her open until there was nothing left to hide. Your voice, your words, your constantness grew inside her, whispering their way through her body. And it was steady and filling. She inhaled you, not out of want or desire, but out of need. Her body compelled her to breathe and so she did, and every cavity, every hole once burrowed, every wound now scarred and healed was gaping and susceptible, stripped and naked.
And you suffocated her with your closeness, and in her serenity, her sheer naivety, she still could not hear herself gasping. That the air was becoming thinner, the ground that once held her so firmly was now sinking and the floating reeds were now still, held in a single moment by the closing world around them. he field, a fading picture, once clear and defined now melted between her fingers and she could not make it stay, she could not wish it to be what it was. And suddenly she was present, a statue amidst a swirling vortex of colour. She watched the horizon blend into nothingness and the taste of life disappear from her lips until she was dry and cold. She could only hear her heart, tremoring, scared, retreating from a battle now lost.
She saw the sky turn, a thick black canvass giving way, collapsing into a menagerie of reds and blues.
And right then, right there as she listened for something more, she knew for a very brief moment that she was not the only one in the field.
BLW
