(i. …and then there were none)
You ask him why, and he smiles helplessly at his hands.
“Well,” he says, “we all know how it ends but it’s my job to pretend, isn’t it?”
He punches the other guy right in his charming-handsome-perfect face, hard enough that there is a crack and red, and you see in her face that this has won him no favors. But his hand trembles before it punches again and you see in his wretched face that this (helpless) has nothing to do with her.
You see them together at her kitchen table. His words and smile are still sweet, but she turns away with a pretty-plain frown and does not look again. The warm sunlight feels stale. You shut the pages to drag out this last moment before the end (we all know how it ends), for his sake.
He looks right at you, with a pained smile. “I’m leaving,” he says, but the hand holding his pack trembles and you both know he cannot.
(v. Love letter to the void)
Dearest, his letter begins, and the ink pools black and pure and his hand is true, but you watch the dark shadow of his face and you (helpless) cannot breathe. He does not smile.
When you close the book, you cry. You try to start at the beginning but this (every) time he never, never smiles.
