Friday, January 25, 2008

I Slept On Her Pillow and Had Her Dreams

It was a Saharan breeze off my lips, me whispering that I still loved her, and then she shot me again. And again, and again, and again, and again, click click click.

A tear rolled off my cheek. I felt neither sadness nor remorse nor pain nor passion, though her inflictions burned in me like guilt. And there was no blood; there was only the tear, my consciousness rolled up within.
Darkness washed over me then, baptising me in its cool emptiness, and I hugged this new lover to me as I drowned in it. Then I bent to him, lifted the teardrop from off the kitchen floor and wet it to my blistering lips.

Robert Prinsloo

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