She thought suicide
was something that happened
to other people, in other places,
never close to home.

He was content being in love,
never thinking for a moment
that truth and betrayal
were two sides to the same hand.

They were both happy,
able to commit themselves wholly
to something, or someone,
without reservations
of fear or pain.

And then, of course,
their worlds were blown apart
ideals left in dirty tatters
and razor-edged shards of naivete
upon the wasted, broken ground.

Left hurt and alone,
they rebuilt their worlds themselves
with thick walls -
strong, cynical walls that dammed up
tears
and vulnerability
and any weakness that could
sneak up
and shatter them again.

And, for awhile,
it worked -
nothing dangerous let in,
nothing real let out.
Pain is impossible
when the heart is blank stone.

But then one day
the two walls met
and almost merged.
The looked at each other
across that double-span
of pride
and suspicion
and past hurt;
they paused.

New sensations bloomed,
genuine sensations
long thought dead -
uncertainty;
curiousity;
and a glimmer,
a stirring of something deeper.

Neither of them, though,
could tear down the stones
after so long,
or even remember how.

But then, ever so slowly,
she reached her hand
across that twice-thick wall
and, just as slowly,
he reached back.

Their fingertips barely touch
as they make their way
along that self-made barrier.

But it's a start.

04/09/2004

Author's Note: Bah. This didn't come out at all as good as I would've liked. Suggestions? Comments? Anything?

Posted on 04/12/2004
Copyright © 2024 Amanda J Cobb