He skimmed the stones across the lake with expert precision and style, with a heavy - hawk crashing to the ground with a pellet in its head – sound the pebble made its final strange arrival, and its slow plummet to the murky, ill, forgotten depths. Each sigh he made after this rippled in the winter frost and meshed against the sky. I tried to match his breath. I felt at one with his mouth, his lips, his voice, when I achieved this feat. He took no notice of me squirm in the stones, but smiled a wide crescent moon gloriously etched across his face. It shone brilliantly, a thousand fires in the night, to light pilgrims, wise men, travellers, gypsies, the lost, the damned and the pious back home. And me. But to what home? He had driven me from my humble home and he knew it. I could not blame him, for this is what love does to the frail.
Love mangles and maims, and my heart is as shattered as black ice. I waited anxiously for the moment that he would speak, when it finally came, hidden amongst the night owl whinnies and the fox screeches, it hit like a hammer. And that’s when I knew. Love does not have a target, love does not have any intentions; love is ambivalent and distracting. Love is the lake. I would but throw my curves and laurels into its clutch if the remedy were not sat here, next to these miserable bones, resting his Christian hand on my sullied fingers.
Oh trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again…
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