The Talk

Tears, salty like brine, form a trail down my cheek. The Wisteria's crying has nothing on me.

My eyes betray every longing I feel.

Opaque like ink, his give nothing away. Those dark depths are pools I can no longer dive into.

His eyes have a glacial distance.

His cheeks, pale like snow, are dry and unmoved. Their blank planes show, that this talk only ever went one way.

His face is stony like marble.

Red, sore and puffed, my cheeks show my heart. We're roses and snow, no longer in the same season.

Now we're apart.

The rift is not for repairing, it has become clear. This talk is to end with our conclusion.

Enough.