I cradle her, clutch her close to my craving chest, arms strained, seeking, holding on for some sign of love.
I do not think I seek love. I doubt it even exists.
Still, I am curious.
I brush her lips with mine, the faintest of touches, as elusive as a wisp of wind, a bloody breath of early morning breeze.
The day has passed.
The dark intrudes.
I am past.
I cram into the corner of the room, crush her, clasp her too tightly.
I am a blur.
I cannot see.
The light has faded.
A voice implores: “Edvard! Edvard! Come out of yourself.”
Do I hear you Laura? Is that your plea? Is it mine?
I do not despise you, sister. I forever see you in the cobblestone mist,
claws bloodied, scratching your way to oblivion.
I cannot abide your anguish. It becomes mine and I am so raw with despair.
Akvavit does not diminish my melancholy, nor the sight of you.
I become a vapour of spray, slipping from sobriety,
become a consumptive ghost, a whisper of empty.
This is my contribution this week to Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction challenge #4: At the window