The night was warm and dimly lit by the streetlights above the park walkways. She walked with him, hand in hand, to a bench secluded from the gaze of yellow light. She shook the feeling that stalked her, always gazing, skulking loneliness that made her go wild, crazy, the loneliness that haunts the deepest souls, and protrudes from every pore, suffocating, breeding sores. Feeling fine and almost sublime, they sat on a bench far away from the gaze of the lights, drunk from the vapor of that eventful night. He grabbed her hand and looked into her eyes, and in his thoughts he surmised the passion, the pleasure and the promise alike, for she was a beauty inside of his mind. The flower dress melded with the bushes, and in their cushion of greenish brown leaves, she felt his need, and answered his heed, a kiss fell, first on her cheek, then on her neck, and before she knew it, she was on her knees. What a great promise for loneliness to die, just a spark of lust and, here or there a cry – that was enough to make her fly into the morning all lovely and so forgetfully fine. And if it didn’t stick, there was always home, a place of sangfroid thoughts foretold, a place for souls in world forlorn. She was lifted by her hair in pain, he claimed her as his own again, pulled up her skirt and felt her soft skin beneath his hands – the electric waves jittered, in pulses they ran.
The warmth of the night made him lose it to the brim, as he grabbed her by the hip and thrust himself in, and Oh! The pain that made her want to scream, but alas, the loneliness instead died as he appeared within. Despite the pain that left her torn, in the end, there was always home, a place of sangfroid thoughts foretold, a place for souls in world forlorn.
It was time to say goodbye, after the break or at least until next time, as dawn broke on the skies above and the sun flared, pierced the veils with heavens might, over the nests of sleeping doves, the warmth began to shudder the night and all the fright was lost well from out of sight. But lo’ this went on no more, as she walked the town alone, across the bridge to another shore, to a place she called her home.
The horror persisted and came back steadfast, no pain nor pleasure made it be cast away steadily into memory for another time – it came back readily, to haunt and to torture, Oh! What a cruel fortune! No more did the skyline look at her in peace, neither did the bridge look steady, instead felt greased, like something urged her to, by her own will fall. In spite of the shaking, the image of home was fast awaking, a place of sangfroid thoughts foretold, a place for souls in world forlorn.
The image of the day was shifting, like sand in the wind, slowly sifting, and the eyes were dry no more. The world felt a saddening bore, her heart felt cold to the bottom of its core, Oh! The skyline was beautiful no more, the skyline that she used to wholesomely adore. For on and on she kept seeing no escape other than fleeing, as all hope turned on her, and her alone, as her heart became a stone, as her soul could hear the call, and her home felt too distant, felt as on a faraway shore. She found herself upon the railing, pushed there by the lonely sore, but her home was there, in sight, near, right on top of the rocky shore.
She, instead, felt the wind, and of her own kin, seeing in her flight a dove, a being she truly did always and forever love, for the freedom and the limitless sky, Oh! The doves were never meant to cry. She felt the wind beneath her clothes, in her hair – in return it felt her woes – feeling the hit that brought her home, a place of sangfroid thoughts foretold, a place for souls in world forlorn.
Autor: Dimitrije Ostojić