A Whisper of Empty

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

A Kiss at the Window