His arms held her like ember.
To him she smelled like softwood.
Honeyed underneath the sun.
She thought he could not get lost.
She thought they could not dissolve.
Holding each other.
Tracing their scents, their addictions.
He followed her everywhere.
Her eyes bittersweet, wanting more.
Never knowing what.
His body was always there.
Reacting to her dreams and invisibilities.
Their love might have been tender.
It hit some halts, but turned around.
She would lower her face, letting it
Sink into the volume of her hair.
It smelled like him and no sense of alienation
Befell her. This was home, this was both of them together.
On her, through her and him.
It was his heartbeat that would let her go to sleep.
What they had outshone the goodwill of others.
Happiness that does not consist of lies is hard to digest.
Jealousy, at times stronger than love, is always on the hunt,
And targeted them both.
“Portrait of a young girl with a red veil” by Alexei Harlamov (1840-1925)
Croque-Melpomene 