She's dead. He knows she's dead. Yet, he can't stop looking at her. He keeps admiring her beauty. It's still there - whatever made him want her - just like before. He still wants her. He wants her more than ever. So he keeps staring. He gazes as if her life depended on it, maybe hoping that staring might magically make her blink. She is dead, though. He knows she's dead. Her eyes will remain open and soulless. He knows that. Just can't stop staring.
YOU ARE READING
Memento mori: A Collection of Very Short Stories and Prose Poems
Ficción GeneralAlways be a poet, even in prose. ― Charles Baudelaire
