The Last Kiss

With great force, the wind blew the tree branches against the window. Inky and black, the night seemed to be a frightening predator and I, the only prey. Only a thin pane of glass protects me and shelters me from what lay beyond. The stars resemble tiny, imprisoned angels, damned to live and shine in that lethal sky, only to fall and fade as they die. One kiss, that was all he wanted.

Pale and sad, he offered a full red rose. He asked only for a kiss. My guilt was not great; it remained a small open wound that oozed hateful feelings of sorrow and rage. Only a little time, that was all he asked for. I did not know. I could not see. Why did I not see?

Was it I that broke his heart? Did I not see through that dark?

I remember the look in his eyes. I know I should not have been so cruel. Those blue highlights sparkled with life, melancholy, but hopeful. His eyes were beautiful in the summer sun, his dark brown hair had just a hint of auburn.

I didn’t know, just one small kiss.

I was sorry to hear of his departure, of the demise of someone who knew me so well. Though I had always refused his affections, he still seemed so devoted. He only wanted one kiss. That was it. That wasn’t so much to ask for.

The clouds are moving in and hiding the stars, the little angels, from my view. I wonder if the night is moving in for the kill. Oddly, the fear of death doesn’t provoke terror.

No. I am just curious. Perhaps, my heart is numb. Maybe grief will slowly sink into my soul, like a steel ocean liner that’s swallowed by the sea.

I refused him…

Thunder grows closer and the wind picks up velocity. I hear someone open the front door downstairs, but I don’t move. I can’t move. I don’t really want to move.

He decided to take his own life, to murder himself. It couldn’t have been because I turned my back on him. One kiss couldn’t have possibly meant that much. My imagination is making me think that he in the one coming up the steps, but I know it isn’t. I locked the front door.

We had his funeral yesterday. He was buried and put to rest. He just wanted one kiss. I know that I did not cause all of this, I couldn’t have. He was always so shy… until the day he offered me the flower, petals as soft as the plushest of velvets. Is it my entire fault? Do I have blood on my hands?

Rain taps at my window. It pitters and patters as if to summon my attention. It drums through an otherwise silent house.

The footsteps draw closer… closer. Soft steps, barely audible, but I hear them. They approach the end of the stairway as I dwell on my refusal.

My silly, foolish pride. The ridiculous fear of losing my immaculate reputation. I never thought I wouldn’t care about that. He can’t be the one climbing the steps, the one venturing through my abode.

I can’t stand the feeling that I had something to do with his death. How could I? Why do I blame myself? Obviously, he was unstable, and that isn’t my fault. Who the hell would kill themselves because of a kiss?

But perhaps I am to blame. Maybe all of this is my fault. Maybe I have his blood on my hands.

Maybe, he would not be standing outside my bedroom door if I had given in.

Maybe that would’ve been true love for me….

Maybe I deserve what I am about to get. Whatever that may be.

The wind lets out a mournful howl, a cry of agony and grief. Maybe, if I had been a little less scornful, he wouldn’t be opening my bedroom door right now.

Maybe I would not hear the rusted hinges creak and groan. Maybe desire can defeat even death, I know that sounds crazy, but what else? Something impossible has occurred.

Maybe if I had accepted his adoration, he would not have hung himself. It sounds far-fetched, unbelievable, but maybe. Maybe he wouldn’t be here now.

Yes, I think I am at fault. I think I am to blame. Perhaps I am entirely to blame.

Maybe he would not be at my bedside, offering me a blood-red rose, if things had been different.

Maybe he would not be reaching towards me with those cold and clammy arms, holding me in an awkward position, as I await the last kiss.


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