We celebrate

Valentine's Day,

remind ourselves

Truth is:

we love

to hate,

to doubt

and berate

the little

spark

of

light

called Life

that resides

in the creases of

our breast-pockets

the mucking card

I speak of course

of the stamped Heart

we pass out

in class

signed From

not Love

because that

would not be

Honest enough

even for us

unblushing liars

who hide

what really matters

to us

Sharps

expertly

concealing

the 13th Trump

the minor or major

Death of whatever

makes us, us

so we embrace

our Cliche

once each year

with nose bouquet

02.15.2024

FebruaryDrabbleLoveAndHateClicheChallenge @Ferryman

The howls. The swish. The crack.

I grew to admire that hatred in your eyes. They cut me in a way that made me feel like my pain was worth something. They made the color of love leak off my pale palette. It served as a reminder to me– a reminder, which I planned to recreate.

The howls. The swish. The crack.

I considered alternatives, yet none rose higher than this apartment complex. You read my love letter. The howls silenced your plea. The swish- your grasp almost saved me. The crack. My color of love painted the concrete canvas.

Every year I hope for an empty bed on Valentine's Day.

Every year, I wake up in the middle of the night to a heavy weight on my chest and claws like sharp arrows sinking into my skin.

“Will you be mine?” It whispers into my ear with a smile.

The corners of its contorted grin widen impossibly. It extends its ghastly hands toward my chest. Its icy claws graze my skin and leave beads of blood in their wake.

Every year I pray my wife's ghost will finally move on from here. The Vatican stopped responding to my letters.

Elise grabbed the phone when she heard the ring tone, I Will Always Love You.

"Hey, Luca."

"Hey, babe."

"I was just thinking about you."

"Me, too. Look, bad news. I have to work late on Friday."

"Valentine's Day?"

"Yeah, I know. My boss doesn't care."

"Can't you work Saturday instead?"

"I wish, but he insists."

"Okay, I guess. Dinner Saturday?”

"For sure. I'll call you."

Friday night, Elise sat on her couch, flipping channels. She was watching half-time basketball highlights when the picture shifted to the audience. She screamed and threw the remote.

Luca was on the Kiss Cam.

Dirt.

The dirt under my shoes. Such a ruddy, ugly color.

Filthy and heavy upon the skin.

She was-- is-- the dirt under my shoes. She is and always will be, because she's not.

She's not dead. She can't be, she won't be dead.

Mother's buzzing about the bags under my eyes.

But she can't get it. She can't see, stupid, stupid woman.

The funny thing about the dirt. The dirt is the only thing that keeps one on the ground, walking and living.

The dirt, the Earth is home.

Demons slither out from the shadows.

Your ghost hovers. Stationary.

Longing and desire were all I asked for in this relationship. I picked you when we know I could have chosen anyone, asking nothing but a smile in return. The shining rock on your finger and matching ones on your neck and wrists weren't enough, I realized as I watched you dot rouge on your cheeks and pucker your lips for someone else. This someone else who saw you for the last time in my car wearing my clothes, shining like my jewelry. They call it first degree murder though I'd call it defending your title, no matter the cost.

I sift through newspaper clippings with her face, identical to mine, to find the note that was sent to my mother days before her disappearance. I went to the police, bloodied, and told them that I couldn’t see his face, but I recognized the phrase. "Love and hate are two sides of the same coin." And his voice, saying, “I love you.” Those three words were left unsaid until that moment. I spoke with a pocket knife. The police asked whose blood it was. I said, "Both, but it’s all mixed up. My father and I bleed the same color."

Today I will tell her how I feel.

Her beautiful curls float over her back as she slips out of bed and drifts to the mirror, tying a gown around her perfect waist. She glances my way, but doesn't really see me. Yet.

Taking snapshots of her movements, I ingrain the images into my mind.

I step away from the window that gives me direct line of sight to her bedroom and put the camera away. She'll get dressed and take the 8:00 train, so I will follow as normal.

But today will be different. Today, I confess my love.

The ornamental sundial on a string around her neck gently swings back and forth moved by a force known only to this creature of time. Black hair obscures one of her eyes where a galaxy of stars is contained, bright flecks in a sea of total darkness. Her sword reflects the light, mocking the useless sword in my own hands.

“If you think robbing banks was dangerous, City Boy, you haven’t seen anything yet.” She smiles at me as she takes my hand in her free one, a gentle kiss before whispering against my lips, “You’re in my world now.”

Some people say that their lover stole their heart- that it was ripped from their chest and crushed in the worst of circumstances, forgotten, ignored, abandoned.

My lover ate my heart from my chest. Devoured my love so wholeheartedly (literally), I lacked the ability to continue pumping blood, to continue existing. My heart wasn’t kicked to the curb. Unlike many crushing heartbreaks, it wasn’t forgotten or ignored. My lover delighted in every bite. Loved me and I loved them- an entirely whole consuming love. And with my heart now in their stomach, forever will be our love for each other.