Farming

Her lips burnt a small black singed circle ’round his chest, where his heart was. She pulled away from the kissed place, watching the blood of each beat secrete out of the crisped ring. Swollen red and pink, it was beautiful (and hers). She smiled- tracing it, listening to the gasp her graze pulled out of his mouth.

He sure was something, letting her do this.

And beneath her supple fruitful fingers, and below the already forming scar, became a small white seed—steadily burgeoning into the stem of a tree, with dripping red flowers on the end of each of its limbs, its brown roots slithering, spreading, puncturing through his aching organs.

She watched, listening to the hushed hiss of his dissolve. The dark of her eyes waiting.

With the widening of the sapling’s trunk, he became narrow. With the blooming of each blossom- the more blood rushed to and out of his heart. With the rise of the trees height, he shrunk. With the ripeness of its vines, he shriveled. And soon she could no longer lure the breath out of his lungs, and his eyes were no longer a color with a proper name. She pursed her lips, thinking, listening, waiting. Until a whispered secret from the wind whistled softly at her ear;

what is a life with no scar? –A life with no memory.

Short URL: http://www.themountaineer.org/?p=1104

Posted by Cai Manoogian on Dec 9, 2009 Filed under Featured, Voices. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry