Love

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Benches strain against the weight of bones that want to crack and break. There he sits, rusting there fingering locks of brittle white string while the crows smack chatter crack and sting. Sting his nerve senses right down there, to the nuts and nooks and crannies located god knows where... or when...or why...or how... Or how she slipped away. Love, love, how she slipped away... and he thought of all the ways he could have tried to make her stay. Stay in the squeeze of his lovers embrace... just in the between of life and sleep. Finger mark bruises traced momentarily and her beautiful shade of babies breath blue. That melodious voice just above the softest whisper, "Why my love? How could you?" The bench and the crows mark the harmony of a chant, Where, when, why, how...why...why...why indeed