Her head was lying on the pillow when I kissed it.
You have broken something out of me, I said. You have drawn me far outside, into the night.
She smiled, and her dark blue eyes turned as soft as dusk. I do love being loved, she whispered, and turned her face toward the window.
I leave you your weakness, I said. You honoured me to see it.
She did not reply.
And – she has risen from the bed. She stands by the door. She says something I will not hear.
Is this what leaving looks like?
I choose what I have chosen, she says. Even if I do it for the wrong reason.
What stick have I left with which to beat this? You have taken it! I cry – but I catch the lie before it leaves my tongue.
I have lain down all my sticks. I cannot blame her for taking any.
She came back once for her gloves, once more for her book of secrets, but she did not come back again.
Dark covers me now. I have turned off the lights. My thoughts swell against the ceiling like reflections of a moonlit sea.
You have led me far outside into the night, I say.
And the ceiling whispers back: wait.
For what can I wait? I have nothing left of hers.
The silence, when the reflections had faded, whispers once more: wait.
I wait. Sometimes I get up from my bed to stand by the window. But mostly now I sleep, and wait.
What have I to do but this?
D. M. Kerr is the writing name of a Canadian writer currently living and working in Singapore, where he teaches game design and business. His work has been published in Blank Spaces, Eyedrum Periodically and Birch Gang Review.