She Was.

The flattery keeps coming, the litany of misdeeds, it’s an avalanche of bows and arrows, she’s a lonely greying monolith with no skin left to sting. There’s ways to pass the time, sentinel standing. This isn’t the only way. Here, the country isn’t so far as one might imagine, and there are mulberry stained fingers and honey icecream. Mulberrys taunt and plump like the feel of the pad of his thumb, both tart and sweet on her tongue, like after. As she reaches up to pick from the higher branches, bare feet and legs, the overripe plop with the shake of the branches and some split open against her skin. Rich purple juices stain her fingers, run little rivulets down her hands, her forearms, her legs blotchy, a smear on her collarbone, across her right cheek where she wiped the hair out of her eyes. The overripe. There are ways of being and alone she is never really without him, never really single, never really untouched, never really unmarked, never, really. She’d have you believe otherwise. She would. She really would.