Pellegrina’s head hit the rocks beneath the statue.
As he let himself go above her.
She looked at the night sky and froze.
It was him; he was so cold.
She thought about the one who was long dead.
Whether he was looking.
Because she wasn’t doing it right. Doing anything right.
A tear crusaded down her cheek.
Lost track of it immediately.
The clouds covered the moon, her face.
All the same to him.
Pellegrina wasn’t even worth undressing.
The statue is staring right into her.
And he is so far away.
Maybe it’s her.
Shifting her head, it just hangs loose.
This boy is blind.
She closes her eyes and is so sad, he would never understand, nor would he ever care.
Pellegrina slams her head against the rocks.
She doesn’t know where to go.
She walks home alone, dragging her body alongside a road standing still.
Her hair is full of knots.
As she stumbles past the shady glass cases she sees herself.
Pellegrina, is this really you?
All of them left her a long time ago.
Her hand on her chest, she shakes her head: no.
“Cleopatra” by Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912)