Still here
She was there when I woke up in the morning. Still, lifeless, some kind of mutation of the woman from the night before. A beautiful alien, lying next to me all hairless and foreign, as if I had never seen her until this very moment.
She lay there, confident and still, and I considered reaching out and touching her, slide my fingers down the dry skin covering her skeleton frame, her vertebra spine, with its row of knuckles counting backwards until it reached the tale-bone, so repulsive in nature.
She was a foreign object in a familiar state. Her presence disrupting the equilibrium of this empty room. A naked body waiting patiently for its autopsy. All sense of urgency long gone. The ambulance howl faded in the dark, echoing screams spilled on the asphalt and vanished like pools of black blood in the night.
She was still here, with her new-born blindness and emptied heart. My bottomless pit of remorse. The embodiment of my bad conscience. My prison guard, my judge and executioner. My love.
