her needs were simple—so she said: blood, sweat, toil, tears; a very little asking. no wizard, I couldn't clap my hands to make her wants gifted. I had some wit to try and soothe the wait between desire and grant; but my mirth made no in-roads. she was fixed and nothing would appease but getting her all. no more; but nothing less.
her days weren't mine for such success. offering love, devotion, effort: none enough.
later, tears streaked her. disappointment opened her heart's eye to its core need. too late for us. my care now given elsewhere, I had to disappoint again. the pain was hers; grim satisfaction, mine. I doubt if either came away content.
lately, in the dim hours without rest, I wander. memory's road pa**es by the cranny she still occupies, frozen timeless, as she was. in weaker moments, I stand rooted, despair our loss; but retreated, as I was with her, I see bright blood working from my hands, drip pouring sweat: both born labouring to please. reminded of her cold acceptance, fresh tears run along my cheeks. then, knowing that I gave her all of what she asked, but not enough, my feet uproot. I wander on. again. dry eyed.
I find I'm moved to come this way—her way—less after every visit. she loses her glamour. soon there will be none. I will be free. she will fade and wither out of mind.
will there be sorrow, when she's finally lost?