The Passion. 

hands

Our eyes locked in a sudden, panicky stare – desperate, petrified but trusting, both unwilling to look away, fearful that if either broke the gaze, something bad would happen. Something terrible.Here in this vice like grip, we were both having trouble catching our breath, snatching at air whenever we remembered to.

My wrist started to burn under the hold of his cold, clammy fist. He was too powerful, but too weak to let go.

I could hear my own heart, thrashing around inside my chest. I could hear his too – beating in an excited, erratic rhythm.

As I looked deep into his eyes, I saw nothing but anger, and as he looked back into mine he saw the reason.

I tried to scream out something, anything, but my mouth fell silent.

Soon it will all be over, he thought.

Soon it will all be over, I thought.

And from a dark shadow high above us, the flash of a cold blade cut through the air with lightening speed, ploughing deep into a white light inside me. And there it remained, even after it was withdrawn, with shiny, silver blood, with my life.

I don’t remember who screamed louder, us both howling like animals, both with eyes wide. Terror and excitement, panic and fury. Love and lust.

And then we slumped to the ground, like lovers, both spent after a passionate night together. A different type of passion. A raw, bloody passion.

He held me for hours in a warm embrace, our shallow breathing calming and falling into a slow, synchronised dance.

We took forever fly away, but he stayed there with me, protecting me. Protecting what he had done to me, what he had done to us. And as I left, he knew I would never leave him again.

 

A poem by Rich Harris. Harris Harrison© 2015
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