HT100 Challenge #110: One last thing
Not exactly what I had in mind for this, but at least it gets a fresh streak going...
“You’re not really there.”
“Was I ever?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me -- you’re the one imagining all this.”
Was he? If he reached out to touch, would his fingers find solid flesh? If he leaned closer, would he kiss warm lips or empty air? Unable to complete the gesture, to believe, he let his hand drop and stayed where he was. “You were the most real thing in the world to me.” Some of the time.
“Yeah, I’ve heard poison’s like that.”
He winced. “Why are we fighting?” he said, sighing and turning away for a moment, knowing the answer too well.
When he looked again, there was nothing there.
Had there ever been? he echoed the question to his own silent reflection in the mirror.
===============
And the poem that inspired this:
“The Apparition”
My dead Love came to me, and said,
“God gives me one hour’s rest
To spend upon the earth with thee:
How shall we spend it best?”
“Why, as of old,” I said, and so
We quarrell’d as of old.
But when I turned to make my peace
That one short hour was told.
--Stephen Phillips, from, “Love Please!: One Hundred Passionate Poems”
“You’re not really there.”
“Was I ever?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me -- you’re the one imagining all this.”
Was he? If he reached out to touch, would his fingers find solid flesh? If he leaned closer, would he kiss warm lips or empty air? Unable to complete the gesture, to believe, he let his hand drop and stayed where he was. “You were the most real thing in the world to me.” Some of the time.
“Yeah, I’ve heard poison’s like that.”
He winced. “Why are we fighting?” he said, sighing and turning away for a moment, knowing the answer too well.
When he looked again, there was nothing there.
Had there ever been? he echoed the question to his own silent reflection in the mirror.
===============
And the poem that inspired this:
“The Apparition”
My dead Love came to me, and said,
“God gives me one hour’s rest
To spend upon the earth with thee:
How shall we spend it best?”
“Why, as of old,” I said, and so
We quarrell’d as of old.
But when I turned to make my peace
That one short hour was told.
--Stephen Phillips, from, “Love Please!: One Hundred Passionate Poems”